Fashionable 

ufFerer 


Illustrated 


emitrypr 


A  FASHIONABLE  SUFFERER 


Chapters  from  Lifes  Comedy 


AUGUSTUS  HOPPIN 

AUTHOR  OF  "  RECOLLECTIONS  OF  AUTON  HOUSE" 

ILLUSTRATED    BY  THE  AUTHOR 

THIRD   THOUSAND. 


BOSTON 

HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN    AND    COMPANY 

New  York  :    11    East  Seventeenth  Street 

(Cfoe  OiUcrsiOc  press,  «JTam()nDgE 


c 

/f'/7 


Copyright,  1883, 
BY  AUGUSTUS  1IOPPIN. 

All  rights  reserved. 


The  Riverside  Press,  Cambridge : 
Electrotyped  and  Printed  by  II.  0.  Houghton  &  C 


PREFACE. 

I  dedicate  this  work  to  the  human  influence 
which  has  caused  me  the  sharpest  pain  and  the 
keenest  pleasure. 


CONTENTS. 


PROLOGUE. 

PAQE 
IN  WHICH   THE    OBJECT    OF    THE   WORK   IS    SET   FORTH,   AND 

PERSONS    INTRODUCED  7 

ACT  I. 

Scene  in  a  Large  City.      Time  :  Late  Spring. 

CHAPTER  I. 

A  NEW    SPECIES   OF   LUXURIOUS    INVALIDISM  ...         11 

CHAPTER  II. 

A   SCENE   WITHIN   THE    SALON    OF    AN   N.    E.  .  .  .         19 

CHAPTER   III. 

ANOTHER  SCENE  WITHIN  THE  SAME  VALE  OF  MISERY  AS 
PRECEDING  CHAPTER,  CONTAINING  A  DISCUSSION  OF  A 
CERTAIN  KIND  OF  POETRY 32 

CHAPTER   IV. 

AN     INTERMEDIATE    OR     PURGATORIAL     CHAPTER    ALLOWED 

FOR    TRANSMIGRATION    OF    SOULS    TO    "PARADISE"    .  .         56 


VI  CONTENTS. 

ACT  II. 

Scene:   "Paradise.''     Time:    Summer  Vacation. 

CHAPTER  I 

EVERY-DAY    EXPERIENCES    WITH    GIRLS    AND    THINGS,    CON 
TAINED   IN   THE    DIARY  OP  AN  UNFORTUNATE    GENTLEMAN         60 

CHAPTER    II, 

SUNDAY  MORNING    IN  PARADISE,  WITH  A  SERMON  WHICH 
DID  NOT  SUIT  ITS  INHABITANTS  100 

CHAPTER  III. 

A  MELON   PARTY    ON  "  TOP-KNOT,"  AND  THE  DISAGREEABLE 

THINGS    WHICH    WERE    SAID    THERE  125 

CHAPTER  IV 

THE  LAST  CHAPTER  IN  THE  DIARY  OF  AN  UNFORTUNATE 

GENTLEMAN  148 

CHAPTER   V. 
LECTURE  IN  PARADISE  HALI  189 

CHAPTER  VI. 

MR.  CYNICUS  DOUCE  SURRENDERS,  AND  WHAT  THE  WORLD 
SAID  212 

EPILOGUE 

IN  WHICH  THE    LATEST  INFORMATION   RESPECTING  THE  PER 
SONS    INTRODUCED   IS    GIVEN  238 


PROLOGUE, 

12ST  WHICH    THE    OBJECT  OF  THE  WORK    IS    SET  FORTH,  AND 
THE    PERSONS    INTRODUCED. 

HUMAN  happiness  is  a  cumulative  sort  of  thing,— 
scattered  through  life, — made  up  of  sunshine  and 
ecstasy.  Each  bit,  however,  is  a  verity,  possess 
ing  the  component  parts  of  delight,  namely,  a  thrill, 
and  the  subtle  appreciation  of  it. 

Human,  experience  is  composed  in  the  same  sort 
of  way  :  of  individual  sensations,  which,  in  the  ag 
gregate,  form  a  complete  existence1.  In  childhood 
we  were  delighted  to  peep  through  those  small, 
round,  magnifying-glass  apertures  in  the  museum 
which  revealed  to  us  the  wonders  of  the  world. 
These  glories,  taken  thus  piecemeal,  were  more 
fully  appreciated  than  if  they  had  been  presented 
in  one  great  mass. 

As  it  is  much  more  instructive  to  study  creation 
in  detail  than  in  its  more  concrete  capacity,  so  in 
the  following  pages  it  is  proposed  to  take  a  few 
glimpses  of  life  and  character  through  the  ideal 
lens  of  experience.  We  shall  materialize  and  in 
troduce  to  the  reader  a  limited  number  of  decently 
dressed  and  "  clever  enough  "  individuals,  and  hear 
what  they  have  to  say  on  various  subjects. 


8  PROLOGUE. 

Like  everybody  else  nowadays,  these  fictitious 
people  have  their  "  peculiar  views  "  which  they  de 
sire  to  ventilate.  Whether  they  are  right  or  wrong, 
it  is  merely  their  way  of  looking  at  things,  so  no 
body  need  be  troubled  about  it. 

Our  purpose  in  thus  proceeding  is  to  show  that 
the  so-called  "world"  is  simply  a  concrete  totality 
of  individual  experiences;  and  to  indicate  that 
any  one  of  these,  however  atomic,  and  apparently 
inconsequential,  is  never  so  unimportant  as  not  to 
produce  some  sort  of  an  impression  on  life. 

The  mimic  stage  upon  which  these  ideal  person 
ages  are  to  appear  is,  first,  a  certain  corner  in  a 
certain  street  in  a  certain  city ;  then,  at  the  proper 
moment,  the  venue  is  changed  to  a  blessed  little 
"  Paradise  "  among  the  green  hills  of  Tucit-Ken- 
noc,  where  the  grass  is  greener,  and  the  air  purer 
than  in  many  another  spot  which  goes  by  the  same 
sweet  name.  Here  we  shall  dally  until  the  first 
chill  of  autumn,  listening  to  discussions  on  love 
and  religion,  on  poetry,  and  other  interesting 
topics.  It  is  as  if  we  were  invited  to  pay  a  visit 
among  a  number  of  congenial  friends  in  the  coun 
try  ;  as  if  we  had  packed  portmanteau  and  dress 
ing-case,  and  had  actually  proceeded  to  our  desti 
nation  ;  as  if  we  had  dwelt  there  durintr  the 

O 

summer  heat,  enjoying  their  intelligent  conversa 
tion,  and  then  had  returned  to  town  laden  with 
pleasant  reminiscences. 

We  shall   endeavor  to  give  to  this  episode  the 


PROLOGUE. 


smack  of  a  comedy,  without  rigidly  following  the 
rules  of  such  an  arrangement,  and,  as  intimated 
above,  our  attempt  shall  be  confined  to  a  few  scenes 
in  every-day  life. 


PERSONS  INTRODUCED. 

"THE  BEAUTIFUL  N.  E.,"  a  nervous  txhaustionist  and  modern  invalid. 
LADY  ANGELA,  a  near-sighted  lady  and  intimate  friend  of  "  The  Beau 
tiful  N.  E:' 
Miss  LUCY,  -i 

Miss  JONES,  I    acquaintances  and  relatives. 

Miss  SMITH, 

And  several  others, 

AMELIA,  a  delightful  prude. 

HILDEGARDE,  a  sympathizing  maiden. 

CONSUELO,  called  "  The  Countess." 

Miss  EUNICE  SMAUT,  a  Church-woman. 

MR.  WOKTHINGTON,  a  gentleman. 

LAWRENCE,  an  observer. 

CYNICUS  DOUCE,  a  pessimist. 

And  others. 

ACT  I..  Scene  in  a  large  city. 

ACT  II.,  Scene  in  "Paradise." 

TIME:  Late  spring  and  summer  vacation. 

COSTUME  :   Present  day. 


A  FASHIONABLE  SUFFERER. 


ACT  I. 

Scene  in  a  large  city.     Time :  Late  Spring. 
CHAPTER   I. 

A   NEW    SPECIES    OF   LUXURIOUS    INVALIDISM. 

HE  salon,  the  dinner- 
table,  and  the  club 
are  not  the  only 
fields  for  the  dis 
play  of  wit.  Newer 
regions  have  been 
discovered  which 
afford  opportunity 
for  its  brilliant  ex 
pression.  Few  of 
us  naturally  turn 
to  the  sick-cham 
ber  to  find  peculiar 
evidences  of  intel- 
sick-chamber  must 
Nowadays  what 


lectual  vigor,  and  yet    to    the 
we  go  for  just    this  very  thing. 


12  A    FASHIONABLE    SUFFERER. 

is  called  disease  is  not  always  treated  with  bitter 
medicine  and  hot  applications.  A  luxurious  civil 
ization  has  begotten  a  new  order  of  invalids,  who 
exist  on  the  sweet  counsel  of  their  physician  and 
the  daily  ministration  of  loving  friends.  The 
house  physician,  like  the  house-fly,  is  in  chronic 
attendance  upon  them.  Luckily,  the  modern  medi- 
cus  is  a  charming  fellow,  and  shows  nothing  but 
velvet  paws  to  his  lovely  patients.  Harmless 
"•  Apollinaris  "  and  a  half-grain  of  quinine  are  the 
extent  of  his  prescriptions.  And  while,  to  be  sure, 
his  bill  grows  steadily  larger  and  larger,  yet  his 
pleasant  and  tidy  appearance,  punctually  at  eleven 
o'clock,  and  the  hope  of  final  recovery  constantly 
held  out,  are  worth  twice  the  amount  of  his  daily 
fee.  "Doctor,  dear!  come  every  morning,  won't 
you?  I  don't  know  what  I  should  do  unless  my 
monotonous  day  was  relieved  by  your  visit." 

*/  «/  I, 

There,  is  something  terribly  mysterious  about 
human  nature.  We  are  always  stumbling  upon  it 
in  doing  the  simplest  things.  When  going  to  bed, 
or  getting  up,  eating  our  daily  food,  or  setting 
about  our  daily  task,  this  inscrutable  mystery  forces 
itself  upon  us. 

Among  the  many  ways  of  its  quixotic  exhibi 
tion,  there  is  none  more  queerly  queer  and  un 
naturally  natural  than  what  is  called  "  the  nervous 
exhaustion  of  ladies." 

When  one  first  hears  of  this  affliction,  he  hesi 
tates  about  approaching  too  near  the  unfortunate 


A    FASHIONABLE   SUFFERER.  13 

victim  who  has  "come  down  "  with  it.  But  he 
soon  discovers  it  to  be  what  the  pretty  school-girl 
said  of  love,  —  "  an  awful  common  complaint." 

Although  at  first  this  disease  appears  to  possess 
more  of  a  physical  than  a  metaphysical  nature, 
still,  when  we  consider  that  the  fairer  of  the  sexes 
is  so  wondrously  constructed,  —  the  intellectual  and 
perhaps  the  celestial  linked  with  the  animal  and 
the  material, — the  quizzical  and  the  whimsical 
with  the  quibble-cal  and  the  McFlimsey-cal, —  con 
stituting  a  bewildering  hodge-podge  of  charms  and 
other  things,  —  it  does  not  surprise  us  to  detect, 
among  these  wonders,  one  of  a  metaphysical  na 
ture.  Whatever  be  the  truth,  it  is  certain  that  the 
disease  under  discussion  is  a  deceitful  complaint. 
It  generally  attacks  the  handsomest  and  the  richest 
of  the  sex,  and  seldom  leaves  them  until  all  their 
friends  die  of  it,  for  they  themselves  never  do.  It 
does  not  affect  any  particular  vital  organ,  but  flies 
about  among  them  all,  giving  a  little  twist  and  pull 
to  each,  seriatim.  First  comes  a  sharp,  wee  quirk 
in  the  head,  then  a  horrid  neuralgic  tweak  in  the 
u  small  "  of  the  back  ;  and  then  again  it  "  jangles  " 
up  and  down  the  spine  with  agonizing  force.  But 
it  somehow  eases  away  again  when  the  men  of  the 
family  have  gotten  comfortably  away  to  the  "  of 
fice,"  and  a  fresh  log  has  been  lighted  on  the  tiled 
hearth,  and  the  little  chintz-lounge  has  been  wheeled 
up  close  to  the  tall,  bright  andirons. 

It  is  undeniable  that  there  is  a  goodly  number 


-L4  A   FASHIONABLE   SUFFERER. 

of  charming  women  in  the.  world, -so  many  that 


they  may  be  said  to  form  a  class  by  themselves, 


A    FASHIONABLE    SUFFERER.  15 

—  whose  vocation  in  life,  an  ill-natured  person 
might  say,  is  to  trade  upon  their  supposed  weak 
nesses  with  the  rest  of  the  world.  Ileally  nervous, 
lacking  bodily  vigor,  and  at  first  requiring  both  the 
sympathy  and  the  attention  of  their  friends,  they 
end  by  becoming  beautiful  tyrants,  before  whom 
everybody  must  make  obeisance.  Taking  advan 
tage  of  their  chronic  exhaustion,  they  traffic  upon 
their  allowed  infirmities  with  consummate  skill ; 
they  have  headache  every  morning  regularly. 
They  generally  lie  a-bed  until  noon ;  have  their 
breakfasts  brought  to  them  as  they  recline  with 
languid  grace  upon  big  frilled  pillows :  a  wren's 
leg  on  toast,  perhaps,  a  bit  of  a  chop  en  papillate, 
a  snip  of  a  roll,  with  a  tiny  pat  of  the  yellowest 
butter,  are  sufficient  for  them  to  taste  of  and  send 
away  again.  Before  a  genial  wood-fire  they  deck 
and  dawdle  with  powder-puff  and  Lubin ;  then  re 
pose,  like  sunlight,  on  the  softest  couch.  Their 
active  minds  devour  at  a  glance  the  latest  novel, 
as  they  are  forbidden  by  their  doctor  to  do  the 
least  work  on  account  of  their  eyes.  They  are  just 
well  enough  to  go  to  the  opera  and  the  play ;  just 
sick  enough  not  to  go  to  church.  They  sit  up  past 
midnight  in  the  easiest  of  chairs,  at  whist  or  some 
thing  worse  ;  then  make  the  whole  house  go  on  tip 
toe  the  next  morning  on  account  of  the  ^  agony  " 
in  their  heads. 

They  are  very  pretty,  and  have  something  about 
them  so  delightfully  fragile,  like  Sevres  or  Dres- 


16  A    FASHIONABLE    SUFFERER. 

den  ware,  that  one  is  always  desiring  to  touch 
them,  but  is  ever  afraid  to  do  so,  lest  something 
might  "  come  off,"  and  they  die  on  one's  hands. 
Sad  to  relate,  these  charmers  are  the  veriest  hum 
bugs  in  the  world.  Some  people  have  fits,  and  we 
pity  them.  Others  have  chronic  distortions,  and 
we  u thank  our  stars"  that  we  have  escaped  that 
sort  of  martyrdom ;  but  to  be  a  "  Nervous  Exhaus- 
tionist "  -  which  is  about  the  same  thing  nowadays 
as  saying  that  one  is  rich  and  fashionable  —  is  get- 
tins  to  be  rather  an  envied  and  enviable  lot  in  life. 

& 

Of  all  the  lovely  and  becoming  diseases  this  is  the 
most  accommodating,  for  it  permits  its  victims  to 
sit  for  three  hours  on  the  hardest  seats  to  hear 
"  Patience,"  or  witness  a  ball-match,  while  it  for 
bids  them,  for  fear  of  a  relapse,  either  to  take  a 
needle  in  their  jeweled  hands,  or  tie  a  ribbon  of 
one  of  their  children's  bonnets.  A  single  consider 
ation  only  prevents  us  from  saying  that  one  good 
honest  woman  in  the  house  who  says  what  she 
means,  and  means  what  she  says,  is  worth  a  bag 
ful  of  this  other  kind.  But  there  is  one  consider 
ation  which  stops  us,  and  that  is,  that  among  this 
female  invalid-corps  are  found  some  of  the  loveliest 
of  the  sex.  They  are  fascinating  to  a  degree  that 
is  surprising,  in  view  of  their  Aveak  backs,  and  so 
languidly  lovable  that  it  gets  to  be  a  privilege  at 
last  to  pay  their  doctors'  bills,  and  be  scolded  by 
their  soft,  sweet  voices.  One  beautiful  blonde 
"  exhaustionist "  in  a  family  keeps  everything  and 


A    FASHIONABLE   SUFFERER.  17 

everybody  lively.  The  children  are  glad  to  have 
one  because  of  the  tidbits  of  fruit  and  jelly  which 
they  purloin  from  the  invalid  fund.  The  men  of 
the  house  are  pleased  because  they  meet  so  many 
"  nice  people  "  up  in  "  dear  Madeleine's  bower." 

There  is  a  subdued  fragrance  of  rose-buds  and 
lemon-verbena  always  lurking  about  one  of  these 
secluded  grottos.  "  Dear  Madeleine  "  gracefully 
rests  on  the  rich  cretonne  sofa,  in  a  rose-pink  peig 
noir  cut  polonaise.  Her  coiffure  is  of  the  latest 
and  most  charming  mode.  *The  color  of  her  hair 
is  a  softish,  childish,  goldenish  brown,  with  del- 
cate  "exhaustion"'  undulations  all  over  it.  Great 
grayish-blue  eyes  roll  about  between  their  dark, 
moist  fringes  ;  and  when,  from  sheer  exhaustion, 
they  rest  themselves  upon  yours,  they  have  an 
enervating  sort  of  an  effect  upon  you,  and  you 
commence  to  experience  the  first  sweet  symptoms 
of  nervous  exhaustion  creeping  over  your  senses. 
A  flush  on  the  cheek,  caused  by  your  too  sudden 
entrance,  is  still  visible  while  the  pink,  taper  fin 
gers  dally  among  the  leaves  of  the  last  romance 
with  exhaustive  elegance. 

Talk  about  the  confining  effect  of  sick  rooms! 
I  would  much  rather  soothe  the  graceful  contor 
tions  of  a  "  Nervous  Exhaustionist,"  than  adminis 
ter  to  the  wants  of  any  other  patient  in  the  world. 
Then  again,  the  conversations  to  be  heard  in  the 
boudoirs  of  this  peculiar  sect  are  often  of  the  most 
delightful  and  racy  character.  An  intelligent,  quick- 


18 


A    FASHIONABLE   SUFFERER. 


witted  specimen  will  amuse  her  friends  for  the  hour 
together.  To  be  convinced  that  the  graceful  art  of 
conversation  still  thrives,  it  is  only  necessary  to 
enter  within  the  scented  precincts  of  one  of  these 
nervous  centres. 


CHAPTER  IT. 

A  Scene  ivithin  the  Salon  of  an  N.  E. 

FACTS  NECESSARY  FOR  THE    J5ETTER    UNDERSTANDING  OF  THIS 
CHAPTER. 

PERSON'S  INTRODUCED. 

THE  BEAUTIFUL  N.  E.  ;  MR.  CVNICUS  DOUCE. 

•HE  Beautiful  N.  E.  is  a  lady 
of  thirty-five,  possessing  comeli 
ness  both  of  face  and  person.  She 
is  bright,  intelligent,  and  gray-eyed  ; 
gifted  also  with  the  womanly  art  of 
coquetry  in  the  most  finished  style. 
Several  years  ago  she  married  one  of  the  twenty 
lovers  who  sought  her  hand,  and  became  a  widow 
after  a  short  campaign  on  the  doubtful  field  of  mat 
rimony.  Her  husband  left  her  his  fortune,  which 


20  A    FASHIONABLE    SUFFERER. 

was  an  ample  one.  Naturally  given  to  luxuriou 
living,  she  imperceptibly  surrendered  herself  to  it 
blandishments,  until  she  became  a  dependent  an< 
almost  helpless  being.  She  is  both  lovely  and  lov 
able,  and  these  very  traits  have  gradually  seduce* 
her  into  a  detestable  dilettanteism  which  threaten 
to  spoil  her  character.  She  knows  society  by  heart 
and  she  lies  on  her  downy  couch,  just  sipping  — 
like  a  graceful  sybarite  as  she  is  —  the  creanr 
foam  of  life's  fascinations.  She  allows  the  world  t< 
"gang  its  own  gait,"  provided  it  furnishes  her  witl 
what  she  craves  of  its  pleasures.  She  has  becomi 
weakly,  hypocondriacal,  and  exigeante.  She  ha 
summoned  a  handsome  physician  to  attend  her,  am 
lives  in  a  sort  of  medical  bondage.  She  imagine; 
herself  to  be  the  most  unfortunate  of  mortals,  ever 
while  munching  away  at  royal  dainties,  and  is  eve: 
comparing  her  dreadful  lot  with  that  of  her  friend: 
who  are  so  fortunate  as  to  possess  good  digestion! 
but  no  money. 

She  has  known  Cynicus  Douce  from  childhood 
They  have  u  summered  and  wintered  "  each  othei 
through  many  vicissitudes.  They  have  quarrelec 
and  fought  out  all  their  youthful  grievances,  anc 
have  reached  a  point  at  last  where  solid  friendshij 
has  survived  all  other  feelings.  The  N.  E.'s  motliei 
and  Mr.  Donee's  father  were  at  one  time  associated 
together  in  a  very  important  and  tender  relation, 
which  exhibited  itself  in  an  intimacy  between  theii 
children.  The  Beautiful  N.  E.  is  a  gorgeous  crea- 


A    FASHIONABLE   SUFFERER.  21 

ture,  though  living  under  a  tissue  of  fancied  ail 
ments.  She  resembles  a  magnificent  jewel  which 
has  received  a  coating  of  some  base  medium  which 
clouds  its  brilliancy. 

Mr.  Cynicus  Douce  is  a  gentleman  forty  years  of 
age,  is  well-born,  well-educated,  and  decent-looking. 
His  father's  father  was  named  Theophilus,  and 
fought  in  the  Revolutionary  War.  His  mother's 
father  was  half-brother  to  one  of  the  signers  of  the 
Declaration  of  Independence  (which  made  his  fam 
ily  respectable).  He  graduated  from  Harvard  Col 
lege.  He  has  had  sisters,  but  they  are  dead.  He 
is  worth  eighty  thousand  dollars  in  United  States 
bonds.  He  is  generous,  quick-tempered,  warm 
hearted,  and  blonde.  Mr.  Douce  has  large  experi 
ence  in  what  is  called  u  society  "  ;  is  considered,  by 
his  friends,  as  an  oldish  bachelor,  who  might,  under 
certain  provoking  circumstances,  marry  somebody. 
He  loves  children  and  dogs,  and  has  loved  women. 
Society  pets  him,  because  he  rather  amuses  society. 
He  holds  positive  views  on  the  current  topics  of  the 
day,  and  sometimes  expresses  them.  He  is  a  gen 
tleman  devoid  of  u  stuff  or  nonsense  ;  "  and  his  pet 
hobby  through  life  is  —  hatred  of  shams. 

The  scene  of  this  chapter  is  laid  in  a  chamber- 
parlor  of  a  mansion  fronting  south,  in  one  of  our 
principal  cities. 

Sun  shining  most  of  the  day  in  front  windows  ; 
soft  moquette  carpet  on  floor  ;  luxurious  Persian 
rugs  spread  about ;  commodious  fire-place,  heavily 


22  A   FASHIONABLE   SUFFERER. 

tiled ;  brass,  antique  andirons  and  fender  ;  cherry 
wainscot,  five  feet  high,  running  round  the  room ; 
cherry-wood  mantel,  covered  with  placques  and 
wonderful  specimens  of  china  ;  oval  mirror  above 
mantel-piece,  with  dragons  and  crystal  danglers  ; 
long,  graceful  lounge  wheeled  up  to  wood-fire ; 
small  clover-shaped  table  set  with  silver  tete-d-tete 
service  :  roses  and  violets  in  pretty  vases :  books 
and  magazines  in  profusion  everywhere  ;  a  dish  of 
rare  fruit  on  a  little  buffet  at  side  ;  elaborate  lace- 
curtains  about  windows  ;  pink,  down-lined  slippers 
at  foot  of  lounge ;  small  Skye-terrier  rolled  up, 
asleep,  on  cushion  :  two  of  Harmon's  pictures  on 
rose-tinted  walls  ;  six  phials,  a  silver  spoon,  half- 
tumbler  of  water,  and  ivory  prayer-book  on  side- 
table  ;  piece  of  half  -  finished  pongee  on  arm  of 
lounge  :  the  Beautiful  X.  E..  arrayed  in  becoming 
morning  attire,  discovered  reclining  with  soft  Olmd- 
dah  shawl  on  her  lap,  reading  a  book  just  received 
from  the  booksellers.  (She  shakes  her  pretty  head 
from  time  to  time  as  she  reads.) 

(Enter  servant.)  Ser.  "  Mr.  Douce  is  below, 
madam,  and  asks  if  he  can  see  you." 

Beautiful  X.  E.  "  Tell  him  to  come  up,  Mary." 

Ser.  "  Yes,  madam.''     (Exit.) 

(Enter  Mr.  Douce,  hat  in  hand,  with  a  smile  on 
his  lips,  and  a  piece  of  lemon-verbena  in  his  button 
hole.) 

N.  E.  "  How  do  you  do.  my  friend  ?  I  'm  glad 
to  see  you,  if  for  no  other  reason  than  to  get  your 


A    FASHIONABLE    SUFFERER. 


23 


opinion  on  something  I  have  just  received  from  the 
publishers.     It  is  evidently  writ 
ten  by  an  unmarried  cynic/' 

"  Male  or  female  ?  "  asked 
Mr.  Douce,  as  he  seats  him 
self  in  an  arm-chair. 

"  A  cynic  is  always 
a  male  !  "  replied  the 
N.  E. 

"  Why  an  unmarried 
one,  then  ?  " 

"  Because  his  spunk 
shows  he  's  not  yet 
come  to  the  altar." 

"  The  halter,  or  the 
altar,  did  you  say  ? " 
said  Mr.  Douce. 

"  You  "11  find  them  to  be  one  nrd  the  same  thing, 
my  friend,  whenever  you  get  bold  enough  to  ap 
proach  in  their  neighborhood." 

Cyn.  "  You  seem  strong  enough  to  read  this 
something  to  me  ?  " 

"  I  will,  and  willingly,  too,"  she  answered. 
"  There  's  no  name  to  the  work.  It  simply  has  an 
interrogation  point  for  a  title  " 

Cyn.  "  That  fact,  then,  makes  it  questionable,  I 
should  say." 

"  I  '11  guarantee,  though,  it  won't  hurt  your  mor 
als.  Listen  !  The  first  chapter  is  entitled,  '  Ani 
mated  Female  Molecules  —  their  Structure  and 
Habits.'  " 


24 


A   FASHIONABLE   SUFFERER. 


"That  certainly  sounds  like  a  woman-hater  of 
the  most  venomous  kind,"  said  Douce. 

"  Wait  till  you  hear  it,"  said  the  beautiful  suf 
ferer,  as  her  pink  and  diamondy  fingers  spread  out 
on  her  lap  the  important  document. 

"  Let  me  get  that  cushion  to  put  just  under  your 
shoulders  !  " 


"  Thanks  ! " 

Cyn.  u  And  this  little  bench  for  your  feet,  per 
haps  ?  " 

N.  E.  "  Yes,  T  think  so  ;  but  please  remove 
those  violets  ;  they  arc,  too  strong  this  morning  !  " 
Cynicus  carried  the  violets  to  the  other  end  of  the 
room. 

Cyn.  "  There  !     Will  that  do  ?  " 

N.  E.  "  I  '11  trouble  you  just  once  more." 

Cyn.  "  Certainly  ;  what  is  it?  " 


A    FASHIONABLE    SUFFERER.  .25 

N.  E.  "  My  vinaigrette,  please."  (  Removing 
stopple  and  taking  a  sniff.)  u  Bliss  !  I  'm  all  ar 
ranged  now ;  but  don't  you  even  cough  while  I  'm 
reading.  I  can't  bear  interruptions  I " 

"  I  '11  hold  in  till  the  last  minute,"  said  Mr. 
Douce. 

The  Beautiful  X.  E.  then  read  in  sweet  tones 

THE    PAPER    OP    THE    UXMARRLEI)    CYNIC. 

k;  The  machinery  which  goes  to  make  up  what  is 
called  k  Woman  '  is  said  to  be  very  intricate.  Phil 
osophers  assert  that  so  complex  a  work  could  never 
have  been  achieved  by  finite  power.  Subtler  and 
more  {esthetic  material  was  required  to  develop  this 
mysterious  creature  than  was  needed  to  construct 
the  more  ordinary  mortal.  These  scholars  tell  us 
that  when  this  weird  and  incongruous  thino-  issued 

O  O 

forth  from  the  .Almighty's  alembic  in  all  the  glory 
of  her  perfection,  she  was  as  much  a  riddle  to  her 
self  as  she  was  to  the  worshiping  universe  which 
received  her.  And  in  this  particular,  philosophy 
must  be  correct. 

u  This  beautiful  and  apparently  harmless  crea 
ture,  with  her  velvety  skin,  and  her  child-like  de 
meanor,  is  not,  however,  to  be  trusted  to  that  lim 
itless  extent  to  which,  at  first  sight,  uninitiated 
youth  is  ready  to  accord  to  it.  And  the  inexperi 
enced  mortal  who  pins  his  faith,  or  bets  his  last 
dollar  on  that  child-like  innocence,  that  innocuous 
lambkinity  will  sooner  or  later  discover  his  mis- 


26  A    FASHIONABLE   SUFFERER. 

take.  The  unsophisticated  youth  will  find  that  the 
pretty  red  blaze  of  the  fire  will  burn  his  hands  if  he 
incautiously  tries  to  clutch  it.  These  same  philos 
ophers  go  on  to  say  that,  superadded  to  the  mental 
and  physical  qualities  which  a  woman  has  in  com 
mon  with  man,  she  possesses  a  nicer  discrimination, 
a,  subtler  perception  than  he,  ever  dreamed  of. 
These  great  qualities  give  her  immense  advantages 
over  her  natural  enemy.  Some  of  her  e very-day 
qualities,  such  as  secretiveness,  passion,  jealousy, 
vanity,  ambition,  self-control,  and  intrigue,  become 
both  dangerous  and  irresistible  when  wielded  by  a 
character  possessing  the  combined  attractions  of  a 
Venus  and  a  Minerva.  Such  an  one  can  crush  with 
out  mercy,  slay  without  quarter,  pursue  with  un 
flagging  energy,  and  stoop  to  the  meanest  subter 
fuges  to  attain  her  desire.  A  merciful  Providence 
has  taken  pity  upon  the  other  half  of  humanity, 
however,  and  so  arranged  it,  that  the  heart  and 
moral  affections  should  be  woman's  great  govern 
ing  principle.  So  that,  luckilv  for  man,  these  more 
insubordinate  elements  of  her  disposition  are  thus 
kept  in  healthy  subjection  :  and  it  results  that  as 
these  different  impulses  gain  or  lose,  ascendency 
over  her  heart  and  affections,  woman  becomes  ei 
ther  a'good,  docile,  domestic  creature  ;  a  dutiful 
wife  and  a  model  mother;  a  woman  of  the  world, 
a  tlirt,  a  reformer,  a,  criminal,  or  a  nun." 

(I  Tere  the  Beautiful  N.  K.  ejaculated,  ^  All   this 
is  perfectly  absurd  !  "  and  then  proceeded.) 


A    FASHIONABLE   SUFFERER.  27 

'*  Among  the  multifarious  circumstances  to  which 

woman  is  (.-ailed  upon  to  adapt  herself,  there  are 
none  in  which  her  natural  powers  come  more  read 
ily  into  play  than  in  her  association  with  man.  In 
the  arena  of  society  she  is  a  curious  and  interest 
ing  study,  and  astonishes  a  student  of  her  charac 
ter  with  constant  surprises.  Self-poised  and  alert : 
•  uncertain,  coy,  and  hard  to  please  :  '  eternally  on 
guard,  vigilant  as  an  outpost;  'dying' to  give  the 
k  coiijt  dc  grdcej  she  prowls  about  her  antagonist 
and  wearies  him  out  by  her  mosqiiito-inents.  I'Yw 
womeii  reach  their  teens  without  becoming  con 
scious  of  their  attractiveness  to  the  other  sex.  A 
desire  to  exercise  an  influence  over  man  springs 
into  existence  the  moment  this  consciousness  is 
felt.  A  woman  then  becomes  possessed  of  two  an 
tagonistic  and  almost  irresistible  impulses  :  the  one- 
is  to  attract  a  man  and  compel  his  allegiance  :  the 
other  is  to  repel  and  torment  her  victim  the  mo 
ment  her  tactics  succeed.  That  which  the  world 
calls  'snubbing'  is  as  much  a  department  of  wom 
an's  code  of  love  as  to  capture  her  natural  foe. 
Like  the  English  Constitution,  a  good  deal  of  this 
code  is  unwritten.  Precedent  and  the  exigencies 
of  each  particular  case  furnish  the  law  of  conduct. 
No  successful  and  fascinating  woman,  however, 
would  consider  her  work  handsomely  performed 
unless  she  had  first  seized  upon  her  little  mouse, 
and  then  had  legitimately  introduced  to  him  the 
dying-by-inches  method,  in  order  to  make  him  real- 


28  A   FASHIONABLE   SUFFERER. 

ize  his  own  abject  situation  and  her  complete  vic 
tory.  When  she  starts  upon  the  war-path,  like  a 
good  general,  she  first  instinctively  hides  away  her 
own  affections  in  the  thickest  covert ;  then  she 
gayly  marches  forth  to  combat,  with  her  bright  sti 
letto  in  her  hand,  and  with  a  picture  of  a  heart  on 
her  banner.  She  meets  a  foe  who  comes  lumber 
ing  up  to  the  fight,  bearing  his  heart  on  his  sleeve, 
and  with  his  face  uncovered.  Every  day  we  see 
such  couples  descending  into  the  '  Valley  of  Decis 
ion,'  the  one  in  light  marching  order,  with  slender 
rapier  and  agile  step;  the  other  with  his  sword  in 
its  scabbard,  and  his  plan  of  attack  displayed  to  the 
enemy,  inviting  destruction.  What  a  woman  loves 
most  is  to  play  upon  the  edge  of  danger,  and  dance 
dalliance  with  'her  dearest  foe.'  Without  hesita 
tion  she  gives  battle  against  overwhelming  odds, 
having  a  vague  hope,  also,  that  she  may  be  taken 
prisoner,  if  only  for  the  pleasure  of  fighting  again 
for  liberty.  Yet,  with  all  this  apparent  reckless 
ness,  she  takes  precious  care  to  keep  a  wide  road 
open  for  retreat,  and  flies  back  to  her  reserves  the 
moment  the  enemy  opens  upon  her  with  grape  and 
canister. 

"In  some  of  these  foolhardy  skirmishes  she  falls 
a  victim  to  her  own  temerity.  But  even  then,  her 
conqueror  finds  it  the  most  difficult  of  his  labors  to 
discover  the  place  where  her  affections',  if  she  has 
any,  are  concealed.  Once  entrapped,  however,  she 
enters  into  the  harness  of  life,  either  with  the  ethe- 


A   FASHIONABLE   SUFFERER.  29 

real  mildness  of  the  lamb,  to  subside  into  the  ordi 
nary  humdrum  of  matrimony  ;  or  else  like  that  ob 
durate  animal  whose  mission  seems  to  be  to  kick 
in  the  traces,  to  take  the  bit  in  its  mouth,  and  to 
'run  away'  with  somebody,  perhaps  not  its  owner." 

When  the  languid  sufferer  finished  reading,  she 

o  o 

said,  "Now,  my  friend,  what  do  you  think  of  all 
that  rubbish?" 

"  I  think,"  remarked  Cynicus,  u  it  is  worth 
thinking  of." 

u  I  would  like  to  know,"  said  the.  Beautiful  X. 
E.,  "  what  a  woman  is  to  do  when  she  meets  a  man 
in  society  ?  Can  she  be  blamed  for  concealing  her 
affections  from  every  booby  who  comes  along?" 

"  I  did  n't  say,"  said  Mr.  Douce,  "  that  she  was  n't 
to  do  this." 

"AVell,  then,"  said  the  N.  E.,  with  quite  a  peach- 
bloom  on  her  cheeks. 

" And  that,"  continued  Cynicus,  "is  just  what 
this  wretch  says  who  wrote  the  paper." 

"  Xo  matter  if  he  does;  there  is  running  all 
through  it  a  vein  of  sarcasm  which  is  perfectly  irri 
tating  ;  and  as  to  wearing  their  hearts  on  their 
sleeves,  I  never  saw  a  man  in  my  life  who  ever  had 
any  to  wear  !  " 

'*  Von  must  be  speaking,  my  dear  Madeleine,  of 
those  dreadful  creatures  whom  you  used  to  meet 
at  the  balls,  before  you  were  prostrated  by  disease. 
What  do  you  say  of  man  in  his  fresh  and  youthful 


30 


A   FASHIONABLE   SUFFERER. 


state,  untrammeled  by  tlic  experiences  of  a  season 
with  all  you  knowing  ones  ?  " 

u  I  know  nothing  of  man  in  '  his  fresh  and  youth 
ful  state,'  "  said  the  invalid.  u  Unsophisticated 
youth  seldom  passes  under  my  ken.  Such  a  sight 
would  be  a  sensation  indeed ! 
Hut,"  she  added,  "  do  you  think, 
my  friend,  that  what  this  crea 
ture  has  written  is  true  ?  "  (ey 
ing  him  with  searching  scru 
tiny). 

"  Suppose  I  said  I  did  n't 
think  it  was?  " 

k%  Then,  from  my  womanly 
perception,  you  would  say  what 
I  know  you  did  n't  think  !  " 
Here  the  N.  K.  pushed  her 
wavy  hair  back  from  her  lily 
forehead. 

Cyn.  "  If  that  is  so,  you  've 
answered  the  question  for  me  ; 
besides,  the  subject  is  too  deli 
cate  a  one  to  embrace  at  once.'1 
N.  E.,  laughing.  "-Nonsense! 
I  've  seen  you  embrace  twice 
as  delicate  a  one,  in  much  less  time  !  Come,  rnv 
friend,  you  must  answer  !  " 

"  What  is  the  alternative,"  asked  Oynicus. 
"  Death !  "  said  the  Beautiful  N.  E.,  with  mock 
gravity. 


A    FASHIONABLE   SUFFERER.  31 

"Then  I'll  answer  you  as  the  Yankee  did  'Je 
mima's  '  mother,  who  accused  him  of  kissing  her 
daughter  half  a  dozen  times  behind  the  door.  He 
replied,  '  It 's  sort  o'  true,  and  sort  o'  not  true,  inarm, 
for  I  only  swapped  five  of  mine  for  one  she  g'in 
me/ v  (Exit  Cynicus,  who  rises  and  escapes.) 

"Good-morning!"  (The  Beautiful  N.  E.  shakes 
her  pretty  forefinger  at  him  as  he  closes  the  door.) 


CHAPTER    III. 

Another  scene  within  the  wmir-  valr  of  misery  «s  preced 
ing  c/t<t}>t<jt\  contiuniny  >r  discussion  uf  «,  certain  kind 
of  poetry. 

PKSCRIl'TIOX    OK    CH AKACTKKS    NOT     IJKI-'OKK     IXTUOOrCED. 

THE  Lady  Angela.  This  friend  of  the  P>r;iuti- 
I'ul  N.  \\.  is  about  tlic  same  a^c  as  the  invalid,  and 
is  shifted  -\vith  many  attractions  of  mind  and  body. 
IFcr  oycs  aro  of  a  true  violet  color,  though  not 
larmv.  These,  together  with  a  profusion  of  dark 
brown  hair,  make,  her  handsome.  Her  near-sight 
edness  interferes  somewhat  with  directness  of  ex 
pression.  She  is  clever,  brimful  of  vivacity,  and 


A   FASHIONABLE    SUFFEREU.  o3 

possessed  of  self-reliance  and  great  administrative 
talent.  Truthful,  open-handed,  and  charitable  to  a 
fault,  she  has  few  emotions,  a  limited  amount  of 
sentiment,  and  no  "  gusli  "  whatever.  Little  given 
to  joking,  and  utterly  unsuspicious,  she  treats  all 
the  events  of  life  seriously,  yet  she  is  like  a  child 
in  her  appreciation  of  the  delights  and  the  merri 
ment  of  life,  and  is  the  great  power  in  the  society 
in  which  she  moves, —  carrying  to  a  successful  is 
sue  everything  she  undertakes.  Always  reliable, 
and  never  weak,  she  is  a  charming  mixture  of  self- 
will  and  brilliancy,  intelligence  and  audacity,  inno 
cence  and  resignation.  Her  wilfnlness  and  decision 
of  character  sometimes  make  her  unjust,  yet  she  is 
so  healthy  in  tone  and  so  vigorous  in  action  that 
nothing  can  resist  her  progress.  The  Lady  Angela 
is  a  great  friend  of  Mr.  Cynicus  Douce,  and  is  con 
stantly  to  be  seen,  in  company  with- him,  in  the 
apartment  of  her  friend,  the  "  Nervous  Exhaustion- 
ist." 

Scene  in  Mr.  Donee's  apartment.     Enter  Servant,  bringing 
note,  which  Mr.  Douce  takes  and  opens. 

"  Tuesday,  April  5th. 

"DiCAi;  CYNKTS, — Come  round  this  morning 
and  fetch  your  little  paper  on  modern  poetry.  1 
wish  to  be  amused,  and  my  whim  to-day  is,  that 
you  are  just  the  man  to  fill  up  the  blank  between 
my  woman-rubber  and  luncheon.  Come  by  eleven. 

"  Yours  in  great  pain,  MADKLEINE." 

3 


A   FASHIONABLE   SUFFERER. 


On  receiving  tins  note.  Mr.  Donee  twirled  his 
moustache,  donned  a  becoming  cravat,  liis  cheeked 
trousers,  and  a  very  benignant  expression  of  counte 


nance,  and,  in  obedience  to  the  summons,  hastened, 
with  the  desired  paper  under  his  arm,  to  the  home 
of  his  friend,  the  N.  K.  The  door-bell  was  an- 


A    FASHIONABLE    SUFFKIJER.  35 

swered  by  Thomas,  a  tall,  thin-necked  house-ser 
vant,  very  pale  and  very  constant,  and  with  a  quiet, 
unnervous  voice  —  most  appropriate  for  an  invalid's 
attendant.  The  visitor  flitted  like  a  burglar,  up 
the  easy  flight  of  stairs,  and  landed  at  the  top  of  it 
on  an  Aubusson  carpet  and  vis-a-vis  with  the  tidiest 
of  ladies'  maids.  She  smilingly  opened  the  door, 
from  which  the  odor  of  i'rrsldy  cut  flowers  stole 
forth,  and  he  crossed  the  threshold  with  becoming 
composure.  As  Mr.  Douce  looked  about  the  ele 
gant  apartment  and  observed  the  almost  innumer 
able  objects  of  luxury  which  lav  in  heaps  on  everv 
side,  he  murmured  to  himself,  kv  Who  would  n't 
be  a  nervous  exhaustionist?  How  delicious  to  be 
combed  and  brushed  by  that  pretty  lady's-maid, 
and  then  laid  away  to  dry  before  that  charming 
fire!  To  be  fed  with  crumpets  and  jelly  from 
morning  till  night,  and  rubbed  and  fondled  like  a 
boy's  moustache  !  To  lie  in  state  on  such  a  moun 
tain  of  frills,  aud  be  decked  with  flowers,  and 
sprinkled  with  such  delicious  odors  !  And  then, 
there  are  the  grapes,  aud  the  l  rubber,'  and  the 
sympathy,  and  the  hairdresser'!  Ah,  me  !  I  should 
certainly  get  sick  in  spite  of  myself,  with  all  these 
advantages." 

Mr.  Douce  murmured  this  to  himself  as  he  re 
moved  his  gloves,  and  endeavored  to  adapt  his  igno 
ble  lungs  to  the  soft,  tropical  atmosphere  of  this 
haunt  of  agony.  The  Lady  Angela  was  sitting  with 
"deal1  Madeleine,''  so  it  was  not  long  before  they  all 


36  A    FASHIONABLE    SUFFERER. 

three  got  into  a  pleasant  conversation.  As  was  nat 
ural,  a  variety  of  topics  were  touched  upon,  —  pol 
itics,  fashion,  and  the  last  bit  of  what  they  all  had 
"  heard."  Lady  Angela's  eyes  were  very  blue,  and 
her  hair  was  very  brown  ;  and  although  she  was 
near-sighted,  her  mind  was  in  a  most  healthy  con 
dition,  and  needed  no  binocular  telescope  to  see 
what  was  in  front  of  it.  And  then  the  fresh,  bree/y 
way  in  which  she  expressed  her  opinions  was  a  treat 
to  hear.  She  had  all  the  frankness  of  a  girl,  with 
the  experience  of  a  pretty  woman.  This  mixture 
of  brains  and  elasticity  made  her  exceptionally 
agreeable. 

"  You  Ye  a  fine,  obedient  fellow,"  said  the  Beau 
tiful  Ts.  E.,  addressing  Mr.  Douce  ;  "for  I  see 
you've  brought  your  'paper'  with  you." 

"Yes."  said  Cvnicus,  "like  a  deposit  in  the  bank, 
I  'in  kept  '  on  call.' 

"  I  'in  much  complimented,  notwithstanding,  that 
you  honored  my  draft  so  quickly,"  said  the  N.  M 
with  a  twinkle  in  her  eye. 

"Ah!  my  dear  Madeleine!  T  answer  all  your 
notes  at  sight,"  gallantly  replied  Mr.  Douce. 

"Have  your  notes  never  gone  to  protest.  Air. 
Cynicus?"  gayly interposed  Lady  Angela. 

"  None,  I  trust,  you  ever  indorsed." 

"That's  perhaps  because  I  allow  more  than  the 
usual  grace  !  " 

"  Y on  can  well  afford  to  do  that  out  of  your  abun 
dance.1" 


A   FASHIONABLE   SUFFERER.  37 

"My  credit,  however,  is  all  gone  to-day'"  re 
marked  Lady  Angela. 

"  Why,  where  has  it  gone  ?  " 

"In  the  words  of  the  immortal  Mantalini,  '•To 
the  demnition  bow-wows,'  for  J  'ye  been  buying  a 

\J  O 

dog." 

t't/n.  "One,  of  those  idiotic  pugs,  I  see!  Hut 
pugs  don't  pay,  Lady  Angela." 

Lady  A.  "That's  why  I  *ve  got  to  pa v  for  him.'' 
(She  smiled  at  her  own  facetiousness.) 

Oyn.  "Still,  you  made  by  the  operation,  for  now 
you've  two:  the  one  in  your  lap,  and  the  other  on 
the  back  of  your  head,  madam.'' 

Lady  A.  "  Don't  insult  my  scanty  back-hair 
with  your  poor  jokes,  if  you  please!" 

C//n.  (Laughing.)  "  Pray,  excuse  me.  I'll  drop 
it  at  once.  It's  so  small  a  matter." 

The  Beautiful  N.  E.  "Stop  your  sauciness, 
cousin  Cynicus,  and  tell  ns  if  you  have  read  Trol- 
lope's  w  Dr.  Wortle's  School,'  and  what  you  think 
of  it." 

Cyn.  "One  of  the  most  interesting  stories  I 
over  read.  Dr.  Wortle  was  a  grand  old  fellow, 
was  n't  he  ?  " 

Lady  A.  "Indeed  he  was;  but  how  do  you  re 
gard  the  conduct  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Peacocke?" 

N.  E.  "I  pitied  them  from  the  bottom  of  my 
heart." 

Lady  A.  "Yes.  and  so  did  I  ;  but  they  did  very 
wronir  all  the  same  ! ' 


88  A   FASHIONABLE   SUFFERER. 

"I'd  like  to  know  what  else  they  could  have 
done  to  remedy  the  trouble,  that  they  didn't  do?" 
asked  Cynicus. 

"  A  good  many  things,"  replied  Lady  Angela. 
"  I  'in  sure  they  suffered  enough  for  a  concate 
nation  of  circumstances  which  they  never  brought 
about,"  said  Cynicus. 

"  Yes,  they  did  bring  it  about,"  answered  An 
gela. 

Cyn.  "Why,  just  as  soon  as  Mr.  Peacock  ascer 
tained  what  Robert  Lefroy  asserted  concerning  his 
brother,  he  — 

"He  did  what?"  asked  Lady  Angela. 
Cyn.    "  He  took  measures  to  discover  if  this  as 
sertion  was  a  fact." 

"That  was  all  well  enough,  but  the  trouble  lay 
farther  back  than  that,"  remarked  Lady  Angela. 

Cyn.  "Oil!  Now  don't  tell  me  that  he  ought 
to  have  gone  before  the  world  and  repudiated  his 
wife,  for  I  won't  agree  with  you." 

"  What  he  ought  to  have  done,"  said  Lady  An 
gela,  slowly,  "was  to  have  gotten  his  wife  di 
vorced  from  Lefroy  in  America,  and  before  they 
came  to  England." 

Cyn.  "  How  could  he  ?  His  wife  was  all  alone 
in  the  world  ;  had  no  place  to  go  to,  no  spot  to 
live  in  ;  so  he  had  a  right,  I  think,  to  shield  hei 
from  a  horrible  position,  into  which,  through  no 
fault  of  her  own,  she  suddenly  found  herself. 

Lady  A.    "Ah  !  no  matter.     He  should  have  left 


A   FASHIONABLE    SUFFERER.  39 

her  and  procured  this  divorce.     They  could  have 
loved  each  other  just  the  same,  and  lived  apart !  " 

"  I  suppose  that,  on  the  strictest  moral  ground," 
said  the  Beautiful  N.  E.,  with  a  flush  on  her  hand 
some  face  at  the  bare  thought  of  the  dreadful  situ 
ation  in  which  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Peacocke  were  placed, 
—  "  I  suppose  that,  on  the  strictest  moral  grounds, 
they  should  have  stopped  just  where  they  were."1 

"  Where  were  they  '•  I  'd  like  to  know,"  said 
Cynicus.  "  The  mischief  was  done.  They  were 
married,  and  Mr.  Peacocke  was  too  much  of  a  Chris 
tian  to  have  left  his  wife  in  some  boarding-house, 
with  no  money  and  no  friends,  to  the  tender  mercies 
of  her  own  sex, — a  treatment  from  which,  as  an 
innocent  woman,  she  must  have  died." 

Lady  A.  "Why  couldn't  he  have  procured  this 
divorce,  I  repeat  ?  " 

Cyn.  "  I  suppose  you  think,  Lady  Angela,  that 
a  fellow  can  get  '  mispliced '  as  easily  as  they  say 
he  can  out  West  in  Indiana,  where  the  train  stops, 
and  the  conductor  announces  at  the  door,  k  Fifteen 
minutes  for  divorce  " ;  but  it  is  a  more  difficult  job 
than  that,  I  can  tell  you." 

"  Difficult  or  easy,"  said  Lady  Angela,  "  I  know 
perfectly  well  what  Mr.  Peacocke  ought  to  have 
done  ;  but  if  he  had  done  so,  Trollope  couldn't  have 
told  us  his  story,  you  know." 

"And  I  know,"  said  Cynicus,  "if  I  had  been 
Dr.  Wortle.  I  would  have  done  just  what  that  splen 
did  old  fellow  did  ;  and  if  I  had  been  Mr.  Peacocke, 


40  A   FASHIONABLE   SUFFERER. 

with  such  an  angel  for  a  wife  as  Mrs.  Peacocke, 
I'd  —  well,  I  would  have  'hung  to  her'  forever." 

"That's  pretty  well  said  for  a  bachelor,"  re 
marked  the  Beautiful  N.  E.  u  But  '  Dr.  Wortle's 
School '  has  put  out  of  our  heads  the  little  paper  on 
poetry  \vhich  our  friend  was  about  to  read  to  us. 
(lo  on,  Douce,  I  'in  crazy  to  disagree  with  you." 

As  the  " Nervous  Exhaustionist "  said  this,  she 
crossed  her  tiny  blue -silk-stockinged  feet,  and  set 
tled  herself  to  listen,  while  Mr.  Cynicus  Douce  ka- 
hemnied  once  or  twice,  and  then  began  his  essay  on 

"SOME  FORMS  OF  MODERN  POKTUV. 

"It  is  impossible  for  language  to  describe  our 
highest  thoughts  or  purest  joys.  The  very  process 
of  putting  them  into  words  cheapens  them  to  me 
diocrity.  Thoughts  and  emotions  which  are  su- 
premest  must  ever  remain  unutterable.  They  can 
at  best  be  suggested  bv  glance  of  eve  or  tone  of 
voice.  They  are  murdered  in  attempted  articula 
tion.  Notwithstanding  this,  man  is  ever  trving  to 
syllable  the  unutterable,  and  poetrv  is  the  chosen 
medium  for  this  attempted  expression.  The.  world 
acknowledges  that,  as  one  of  the  line  arts,  none  of 
her  sisters  holds  a  prouder  position. 

"A  poetic  mind  is  made  out  of  finer  clav  than 
other  kinds.  Homer,  Virgil  and  Hoi-ace,  Milton, 
Shakespeare  and  Dante,  Scott,  Bvron  and  Words 
worth,  with  id  oiinic  </enu.i<,  were  all  poets  indeed. 
Their  names  and  their  works  need  but  be  men- 


A    FASHIONABLE   SUFFERER.  41 

tioned  to  be  extolled.  To  be  called  a  poet  is  a  dif- 
erent  thing,  however,  from  actually  being  a  poet. 
There  are  shoals  of  creatures  who  dream  that  they 
dwell  on  Mount  Parnassus,  when  they  mistake 
the  bottom  for  the  top  of  it.  There  is  a  certain 
form  of  modern  poetry  which  is  pure  bosh.  It  mis 
leads  instead  of  instructing  anybody,  it  degrades 
instead  of  elevating  one's  soul,  and  it  is  as  inappro 
priate  to  the  needs  of  the  age  as  a  high-necked 
apron  would  be  to  the  wants  of  a  Zulu.  If  grand- 
sounding  words,  describing  disembodied  phantoms 
clutching  after  the  unutterable,  be  poetry,  then  we 
have  lots  of  it. 

"To  some  minds,  the  divine  art  is  mere  sound; 
like  the  monotonous  droning  of  summer  bees,  or 
the  flowing  of  water  over  a  dam.  It  makes  but 
little  difference  to  them  that  no  sense  is  conveyed ; 
for  so  long  as  the  poet's  object  is  sufficiently  ob 
scured,  and  the  rhythm  and  the  feet  are  all  there, 
and  other  folks  who  can't  understand  it  are  envy 
ing  them  who  can,  although  even  tliey  can't,  — 
why,  that  is  poetry. 

'•  I  am  unable  to  fathom  a  good  deal  of  this  sort 
of  modern  rhyme,  chiefly  because  I  fail  to  discover, 
at  a  glance,  the  governing  verb  of  the  long  sen 
tences.  It  does  n't  seem  to  come  in  at  the  proper 
place  ;  so  in  looking  for  this  verb  I  lose  all  the  sen 
timent  of  the  lines.  Then  again,  the  jingle  and 
the  rhythm  'get  away'  with  me,  leaving  my  com 
prehension  far  in  the  rear.  It  is  a  nuisance  to  be 


4'2  A    FASHIONABLE   SUFFERER. 

so  constantly  obliged  to  stop  in  order  to  allow  one's 
mind  to  'catch  up.'  Then  I  never  know  just  who 
is  talking, — whether  Sir  Roland  de  (iraeme  said 
all  that  about  "the  eagle's  scream  on  rocky  crag,' 
or  the  Lady  Gwendolyns.  .Again,  when  I  have  at 
last  decided  that  the  knight  was  certainly  the  party 
'  AVhose  check  was  blenched  with  ashen  hue  ' 

at  what  the  Lady  Gwendolyne  told  him,  I  am  hope 
lessly  involved  by  this  line,  which  follows  immedi 
ately  after,  — 

'At  this  relation  she  turned  pale.' 

So  1  am  forced  to  go  'way  back  again  to  where 
'•moonlight  mists  lie  on  the  moat,'  and  with  fore- 
linger  retrace  carefully,  line  by  line,  until  I  reach 
the  place  where  I  was  brought  to  a  stand.  Now, 
this  way  of  enjoying  poetry  is  nonsensical ;  and  I 
think  1  must  be  made  up  differently  from  the  rest 
of  the  world  to  find  this  aesthetic  occupation  such 
a  diilicult  task." 

-  Yes,  you  must  be,"  interrupted  the  Beautiful 
N.  E.,  '-for  this  rhythmic  cadence  is  fascinating  to 
•me.  The  xcuxc  is  not  everything  in  a  poem,  my 
friend;  you  are  altogether  too  prosaic." 

u  No  matter,"  said  Lady  Angela,  laughing. 
"Let's  agree  that  he  is  made  of  different  stuff, 
from  other  people  ;  and  what  is  more,  that  there 
is  neither  rhyme  nor  reason  about  him." 

"Why,  haven't  1  the  required  number  of  feet 
for  a  poet?  "  said  Cynicus,  laughing. 


A   FASHIONABLE   SUFFERER.  43 

"  I  suppose  so,  Oynny,  for  both  of  yours  are 
spondees,"  replied  Lady  Angela,  fairly  blushing  at 
the  horrible  joke  she  had  perpetrated. 

N.  E.  (In  great  merriment,  and  smelling  a  nose 
gay.)  u  (10  on,  my  friend;  we  beg  your  (i race's 
pardon  for  interrupting  all  your  eloquence." 


u  I  envy  those  young  ladies,"  continued  Mr. 
Douce,  "  who  sit  together  under  the  elm-trees,  and 
read  for  hours  '  Locksley  Hall'  and  Mrs.  Browning 
and  Mr.  Browning,  and  understand  so  easily  every 
word  these  authors  say.  And  when  they  are  de 
vouring  the  seductive  style  of  modern  poetry  under 
discussion,  they  go  steadilv  on,  galloping  forward, 
verse  after  verse, — never  looking  back  until  the 
gloaming  shuts  out  the  printed  page  from  their 


44  A   FASHIONABLE   SUFFERER. 

pretty  eyes.  Besides,  they  intuitively  perceive  the 
truthfulness  of  those  wonderful  revelations  of  the 
inner  inwardness  of  Lady  Gwendolyne's  conscious 
ness  when  she  won  the  knight,  and  the  naturalness 
of  her  'buoyancy  anent  her  wrongs;'  whieh,  I, 
somehow,  cannot  fathom,  and  so  consequently  envy 
them. 

"  They  never  stop,  unless  to  draw  breath  or  '  turn 
over.'  They  know  just  what  lie  did.  and  just  what 
she  did,  and  just  what  they  both  did,  and  what  be 
came  of  it  all. 

"'.No  trouble,'  say  they,  'all  perfectly  clear,' 
'perfectly  lovely,'  'so  musical,'  'so  rhythmi 
cal,'- 

"  '  That  haughty  knight  of  <le  Lorraine, 
Like,  mists  athwart  the-  roaring  main, 
.  .  .  Clutched  at  her  jeweled,  silken  train ; 
He  bore  aloft  'mid  blood  and  pain, 
T  were  belter  that  he  ne'er  had  ta'en, 
O  Gwendolyns  !  thy  gentle  rein  !  — 

lie  spoke  but  once,  then  closed  his  eyes  ;  — 
The  palfrey  gray  —  and  bridle-wise!  — 
'  Ab  me  !  '  he  .said.     '  ()  Paradise  !  '  — 

Oh!      It's  just  splendid!" 

"  Ah  !  now  you  are  speaking  of  those  mawkish 
school-girls,  who  are  hardly  out  of  pantalets,"  said 
the  N.  E. 

"No!  not  altogether  of  that  kind,"  answered 
Mr.  Douce.  "The  class  I  have  reference  to  in 
cludes  also  girls  whose  feet,  to  be  sure,  are  often 
seen  below  their  dresses  ;  but  not  because  their 
gowns  are  not  long  enough." 


A   FASHIONABLE   SUFFERER.  45 

"  Because  why,  then  ?  "  said  Lady  Angela. 

"Because  their  stocking's  are  so  pretty,"  replied 
Cynicus.  "  But  why  do  you  interrupt  me  so  often  ; 
you  will  lose  all  the  continuity." 

Mr.  Douce  then  resumed,  — 

"  I  make  these  remarks  to  inveigh  against  that 
unhealthy  sentiment  of  the  present  day  which  in 
dulges  in  senseless  rhapsodies  over  mere  rhythmic, 
cadence. 

''True  poetry  is  emotion,  and  its  office  is  to  ele 
vate  humanity.  Here  the  ideal  comes  legitimately 
into  use,  for  when  poetry  deals  in  natural  events, 
and  describes  the  different  phases  of  human  thought 
and  feeling,  it  is  permitted  to  idealize  these  sub 
jects.  Just  as  the  true  artist,  using  his  knowledge 
of  the  facts  and  attributes  of  nature,  adds  to  all 
this  his  own  ideal  conception,  without  violating  any 
recognized  verity. 

'•The  bosh-poetry  of  the  present  day  does  not 
follow  any  of  these  laws.  It  describes  nothing  but 
the  unreal  and  the  unnatural.  It  throws  about 
itself  such  a  veil  of  unintelligibility  as  to  obscure 
the  small  figment  of  sense  it  may  be  supposed  to 
contain.  It  depends  for  its  effect  upon  high-sound 
ing  words,  —  a  certain  originality  of  expression 
which  is  attractive, — any  amount  of  gush,  which 
is  cheap,  coupled  with  a  th'mlv  veiled  doullc-en- 
t  end  re  which  is  disgusting.  (iive  me,  in  prefer 
ence  to  such  pinchbeck  varieties,  '  Lucy  had  a  little 
lamb  !  '  or,  '  Where  are  you  going,  my  pretty 


46  A   FASHIONABLE    SUFFERER. 

maid  ?  "  I  can  appreciate  these  simple  ditties. 
They  kindle  emotion,  ami  suggest  pleasanter  trains 
of  thought  than,  for  instance,  the  following  lines 
addressed  to 

'"AMOR. 

"  '  O  spirit  unutterable  !    0  force  divine  ! 

Abridged  athwart  the  auinial  and  the  higher  life, 

Coexistent  with  earth's  commencement !  —  entwine 

Thyself  — an  immortal  legacy  — about  my  wife! 

"  '  Pier  golden  hair  make  sensuous  with  thy  presence ! 
Its  gossamer  web,  like  flowers  of  the  yellow  sun, 
Dropping  in  golden  rain  on  ivory  shoulders,  whence, 
The  pure  irradiance  of  her  breaths,  but  half  begun 

"'  In  loving  heart  below,  doth  warm  these  golden  tresses 

Like  gentle  summer  rays  on  some  southern  flowered  slope  ; 
Clearing  away  all  signs  of  the  heart's  distresses, 
And  bidding  in  their  places  to  blossom  sweet  flovvret  Hope.'  " 

"Let  us  now  translate  this  poem  into  plain  Eng 
lish.  A  nameless  individual  — who  seems  to  be  a 
married  man  —  calls  upon  the  spirit  of  Love,  a  hy 
brid  of  earth  and  heaven,  to  entwine  itself  about 
his  wife  like  an  immortal  legacy.  '  Immortal  leg- 

O  . 

acies  "  may  possibly  twine  themselves.  Mortal 
ones,  however,  are  generally  too  small  to  do  that. 
They  expend  their  powers  in  mourning-rings,  and 
black-edged  note-paper. 

"  The  second  verse  is  rather  a-sthetic.  The  palpi 
tating  husband  goes  on  to  hope  that  this  spirit  will 
get  into  his  wife's  hair  and  make  it  sensuous  ; 
into  her  "pug,1  her  'crepes,'  and  her  'bang.'  It 


A   FASHIONABLE    SUFFERER. 


47 


must  go  all  through  it,  in  spite  of  hair-pins  and 
'false  fronts,'  so  he  can  perceive  it.  Then  he 
poetically  compares  it  to  yellow  sunflowers  drop 
ping  in  golden  rain  upon  her  ivory  shoulders,  — 
'falling'  would  have  been  better,  but  no  matter, 
and  as  being  warmed  up  by  the  'irradiance  of  half- 
breaths.'  Think  of  half-breaths  purring  up  from 
your  wife's  heart  with  irradiance,  and  warming  this 
golden  hair,  which,  of  course,  in  that  case,  must 
have  been  all  over  her  face  !  Now,  as  a  matter  of 
fact,  half-breaths  never  come  up  with  any  irradi 
ance  at  all.  There  is  no  illuminating  power  in  a 
breath,  much  less  a  half-breath.  1  wish  a  light 
breath  was  the  same  thing  as  a  lighted  breath,  for 
then  we  might  save  all  our  gas-bills,  and  be  rilled 
with  delight  at  the  same  time. 
There  are  three  or  four  other 
objections  to  the  '  half-breaths ' 
of  this  poem;  one  of  these  is 
that,  instead  of  clearing  away 
the  '  heart's  distresses,'  they 
actually  redouble  them.  Nei 
ther  do  these  'semi-brefs'  make 
the  'sweet  flowret  Hope'  to 
'blossom,'  because  if  they  did 
it  would  be  holding  out  false 
blossoms  to  the  patient,  as  on 
pure  mathematical  principles  a 
person  could  live  only  half  as  long  on  half-breaths 
as  he  could  on  whole  ones. 


48  A    FASHIONABLE    SUFFERER. 

"  Besides  all  this,  nobody  ever  does  anything  of 
the  kind.  It  is  all  poetic,  aesthetic,  and  dyspeptic 
nonsense.  But  the  poem  sounds  '  mighty  pretty.' 

"  '  Its  gossamer  web,  like  flowers  of  the  yellow  sun, 
Dropping  in  golden  rain.' 

"  Oh,    dear  !       Is  n't    it    too    num-num    for    any 
thing  ! 

''There,  is  a  ring,  however,  about  true  poetry 
which  goes  directly  to  the  heart  and  stays  there. 
Here  is  something  delicious  from  Shelley's  poem  of 

"  .JULIAN   AND    MADDALO. 

"'Oh!  how  beautiful  is  sunset,  when  tho  <Jo\v 
Of  heaven  descends  upon  a  land  like thec, 
Thou  paradise  of  exiles,  Italv. 

Thy  mountains,  seas,  and  vineyards,  and  the  towers 
Of  cities  they  encircle  !      It  was  ours 
To  stand  on  thoe,  beholding  it  ;  and  then, 
Just  where  we  had  dismounted,  the  Count's  men 
Were  waiting  for  us  witli  the  gondola. 
As  those  who  pause  on  some  delightful  way, 
Though  bent  on  pleasant  pilgrimage,  we  stood 
Looking  upon  the  evening,  and  the  flood 
Which  lav  between  tho  city  and  the  shore, 
Paved  with  the  image  of  the.  sky.     The  hoar 
And  airy  Alps,  towards  the  north,  appeared 
Between  the  east  and  west ;  and  half  the  sky 
Was  roofed  with  clouds  of  rich  emblazonry, 
Dark  purple  at  the  zenith,  which  still  grew 
Down  the  steep  west  into  a  wondrous  hue, 
Brighter  than  burning  gold,  even  to  the  rent 
Where  the  swift  sun  yet  paused  in  his  descent 
Among  the  many-folded  bills.     They  were 
Those  famous  Euganeau  hills,  which  bear, 


A    FASHIONABLE    SUFFERER.  49 

As  seeu  from  Lido  through  the  harbor  piles, 
The  likeness  of  a  clump  of  peaked  isles  ; 
And  then,  as  if  the  earth  and  sea  had  been 
Dissolved  into  one  lake  of  fire,  were  seen 
Those  mountains  towering,  as  from  waves  of  flame, 
Around  the  vaporous  sun,  from  which  there  came 
.    The  inmost  purple  spirit  of  light,  and  made 
Their  very  peaks  transparent.     "  Ere  it  fade," 
Said  my  companion,  "  I  will  show  you  soon 
A  better  station."     So  o'er  the  lagnne 
We  glided,  and  from  the  funereal  bark 
I  leaned,  and  saw  the  city,  and  could  mark 
How  from  their  many  isles,  in  evening  gleam, 
Its  temples  and  its  palaces  did  seem 
Like  fabrics  of  enchantment  piled  to  heaven. 
I  was  about  to  speak,  when  "  We  are  even 
Now  at  the  point  I  meant,"  said  Maddalo, 
And  bade  the  gondolier!  cease  to  row. 
"  Look,  Julian,  on  the  west,  and  listen  well, 
If  you  hear  not  a  deep  and  heavy  bell." 
I  looked,  and  saw  between  us  and  the  sun 
A  building  on  an  island,  such  a  one 
As  age  to  age  might  add,  for  uses  vile,  — 
A  \\indowless,  deformed,  and  dreary  pile  ; 
And  on  the  top  an  open  tower,  where  hung 
A  bell,  which  in  the  radiance  swayed  and   swung  — 
We  could  just  hear  its  coarse  and  iron  tongue  : 
The  broad  sun  sank  behind  it,  and  it  tolled 
In  strong  and  black  relief.     "  What  \ve  behold 
Shall  be  the  mad-house  and  its  belfry  tower," 
Said  Maddalo  ;  "  and  ever  at  this  hour, 
Those  who  cross  the  water  hear  that  bell, 
Which  calls  the  maniacs,  each  one  from  his  cell, 
To  vespers."  ' 

u  Now  how  perfectly  intelligible  this  is!  How 
beautifully  expressed!  How  elevating  in  charac 
ter  !  and,  at  the  same  time  how  it  idealizes  the 

4 


50  A    FASHIONABLE    SUFFERER. 

facts  and  verities  of  nature  !  "  Here  Mr.  Douce 
"ka-hemmed"  once  or  twice  more,  and  then  pro 
ceeded. 

"  Incessant  reading  of  indifferent  poetry  will  in 
jure  character.  An  individual  reared  in  a  poetic 
atmosphere,  where  it  is  mixed  up  with  his  daily  ex 
periences,  will  gradually  become  affected  by  it.  If 
this  atmosphere  happens  to  be  a  mawkish  and  false 
one,  it  will  show  itself  in  his  character.  .Just  as  a 
continual  diet  of  unsubstantial  food  will  tend  to 
form  a  less  noble  specimen  of  physical  health  than 
where  there  is  an  abundance  of  good  beef  and  ale. 
On  this  principle  a  false  and  sickly  character  would 
be  the  result  of  daily  doses  of  what  are  called  k  emo 
tional  lines,'  '  rhapsodies  of  soul/  intuitive  long 
ings/  'argosies  from  heaven/  and  such  like. 

"•  In  time,  such  bosh  would  turn  a  Christian  into 
a  sexless  nondescript. 

"We  should  not  only  read  the  best  poetry,  but 
something  else  besides.  Specialists  of  any  sort, 
scientific,  artistic,  or  {esthetic,  are  likely  to  become 
little  else  than  enthusiasts  ;  and  enthusiasts  are  in 
danger  of  becoming  deranged  people,  and  deranged 
people,  after  a  while,  get  cra/,y.  Nobody  can  think 
intensely,  continually,  entirely  on  one  subject,  give 
up  his  whole  mind  to  it,  without  getting  oblivions 
to  other  important  interests,  and  sooner  or  later  be 
coming  an  abnormal  creature.  One  man  believes 
in  a  vegetable  diet,  so  he  eats  nothing  but  vegeta 
bles,  until  at  last  he  is  but  little  more  than  an  or- 


A   FASHIONABLE   SUFFERER.  51 

dinaiy  carrot.  So  it  is  with  all  other  crazes  which 
afflict  society.  Everything  in  this  world  can  bo 
overdone,  and  we  suffer  from  it.  The  same  may 
be  said  of  poetry.  Let  us  read  it  as  we  sip  maras 
chino, —  in  its  proper  place.  A  bit  of  history,  a 
novel  or  two,  a  little  of  the  best  poetry,  then  a  few 
hours  of  recreation,  and  so  on,  until  we  reach  that 
perfected  state  of  living  which  we  never  can  reach 
—  until  we  die.' 

"  Oh  dear  !  "  ejaculated  Lady  Angela,  u  you  do 
take  such  a  dreary  view  of  this  subject !  Don't  you 
know,  my  dear  fellow,  that  allowance  must  be,  made 
for  a  certain  amount  of  what  we  call  humbug ! 
Human  nature  demands  it.  It  is  like  the  chit-chat 
and  tittle-tattle  of  society,  which  serve 'to  take  the 
strain  off  the  mind,  which  might  otherwise  break 
down  under  a  continued  pressure  of  the  prosaic." 

tw  Yes  !  "  echoed  the  N.  K.  "  Cranks  and  deranged 
people  seem  to  be  a  necessity  in  this  world.  They 
act  as  mosquitoes  and  May-bugs  do  in  summer,  and 
call  off  our  attention  from  more  serious  matters; 
the  mere  act  of  crushing  them  eases  our  minds." 

"  Ladies,  pardon  my  smiling.  You  talk  as  if  you 
were  both  weighed  down  by  an  insupportable  load 
of  care  and  trouble;  but,  perhaps,  you  are  right. 
This  is  only  my  view  of  it.  It  is  delightful,  how 
ever,  to  think  you  don't  agree  with  me,  for  I  hate 
the  humdrum  of  perfect  accord  as  heartily  as  you  do. 
What  I  particularly  dislike  is  being  humbugged 
and  not  to  know  it;  it's  rather  pleasant  if  you 


52  A    FASHIONABLE    SUFFERER. 

have  that  knowledge.  No  matter,"  continued  Mr. 
Douce,  "I've  only  a  trifle  more  to  read,  and  then 
you  can  pitch  into  me  to  your  heart's  content." 

"  There  is  a  sort  of  poetry,  however,  which  de 
lights  everybody,  and  which  not  only  moulds  char 
acter  but  enables  the  most  prosaic  of  us  to  listen  to 
it  without  weariness.  This  poetry  can  hardly  be 
described,  for  you  catch  its  mystic  eloquence  in  the 
turn  of  a  wrist  and  in  the  pose  of  a  head,  in  the 
silver  tone  of  laughter  or  on  the  crest  of  an  arch 
expression.  Whole  cantos  can'  be  acquired  by 
heart  in  the  smallest  moment  of  time,  and  volumes 
'•committed'  before  on.e  can  say  ".lack  Iiobinson.' 
(live  me  that  kind  of  poetry — for  it  makes  but 
little  difference  whether  '  love '  rhymes  with  'dove,' 
or  'dart'  with  'heart.'  There  is  a  deeper  rhythm, 
intelligible,  unutterable,  —  which  tells  its  story  in 
letters  of  light,  either  to  the  tyro  of  eighteen  or  the 
veteran  of  fifty." 

Silence  reigned  within  the  scented  precincts  of 
the  invalid's  boudoir  for  the  space  of  two  full  min 
utes  ;  but  was  finally  broken  by  our  fair  friend  her 
self,  who  slowly  remarked,  — 

"  Now  there  is  something  true  in  what  you  say 
about  a  certain  style  of  modern  poetry,  yet  you 
can't  make  me  hate  it.  './Esthetic  mooning,'  if  you 
will,  but  in  spite  of  it  all,  the  whole  idea  is  so  dif 
ferent  from  this  everlasting  talk  about  the  '  Cen- 


A   FASHIONABLE   SUFFERER.  53 

sus  Bill '  and  the  '  Chinese  Question,1  or  whether 
women  will  probably  vote  next  summer,  or  what 
will  be  the  political  significance  of  the  removal  of 
some  little  postmaster  in  South  Framing-ham,  that 
I  hail  a  touch  of  this  '  hifalutin '  as  a  breath  from 
another  sphere." 

"  You  are  more  than  half  right,  dear  Madeleine," 
replied  Lady  Angela;  "for  even  twaddle  and  non 
sense  have  their  proper  places,  and  nothing  is  more 
comforting,  when  one  feels  just  like  it,  than  to  read 
the  most  ecstatic  and  improbable  romance,  and  to 
gloat  over  the  details  of  the  most  fiendish  crimes." 

"  This  sounds  well,  I  must  confess,"  said  Cynicus 
Douce,  "  coining  from  a  woman  who  cries  over  an 
old  love-letter,  and  gives  he'r  last  penny  to  help  any 
worthless  tramp  who  passes  her  door." 

"Never  mind!"  replied  honest  Lady  Angela. 
"We  are  all  bundles  of  incongruities;  and  the 
truth  of  the  matter  is  that  people  an*  a  good  deal 
better,  and  a  good  deal  worse,  than  other  people 
think  they  are." 

The  Nervous  Exhaustionist  here  grew  a  little 
pale,  but  gracefully  leaned  over  and  took  from  the 
table  at  her  side  a  mysterious  paper  box,  and  said 
in  the  softest  accents  :  — 

"  He  fore  you  go,  you  must  both  taste  the  Count 
ess  Toots'  wedding-cake.  It  was  left  at  the  Lega 
tion  after  the  ceremony,  and  the  Secretary  sent  it 
over  to  me  in  the  dispatch-bag  :  —  just  a  crumb, 
my  friends,  you  know,  to  dream  on  !  " 


54  A    FASHIONABLE    SUFFERER. 

u  Oh  !  a  crumb  of  that  stuff  looks  black  enough 
for  the  dream  of  death,"  answered  Mr.  Douce. 

Ob  Not  if  you  took  quinine,  as  1  do,  before  eating. 
Would  you  mind  passing  the  pellets?"  said  the, 
Men ut if ul  N.  E. 

"Not  tin;  least  in  the  world.  How  many  will 
' settle  '  plum-cake?"  inquired  Douce. 

N.  E.  "  Now  don't  be  foolish,  Cynieus.  My  doc 
tor  prescribes  one  before  each  meal,  and  two  before 
anything  particularly  indigestible." 

Cyn.   "  Your  doctor  must  be  a  surgeon,  then." 

N.  E.   -Why,  pray?" 

Cyn.  ^  Because  he's  evidently  preparing  you  for 
some  horrid  operation." 

N.  E.  "Olu  you  can't  frighten  me;  he  lets  me 
eat  everything.  He  says  where  nervous  prostra 
tion  has  taken  place,  patients  are  to  have  their  own 
will." 

*"•  1  wish  my  nervous  centre  was  prostrated,  then," 
said  Mr.  Douce. 

"  You  're  incorrigible,"  said  Lady  Angela.  But 
we  must  go  now,  Madeleine,  dear  :  don't  exert  your 
self  too  much,  for  it  will  be  sure  to  put  you  back 
just  where  you  were  last  fall." 

'N.  E.  "Exert  myself!  It  's  impossible.  I  can  as 
sure  you.  I  just  lie  here  all  day,  thinking  over 
what  I'd  like  to  do  if  I  were  only  as  well  as  both 
of  you.  I  tired  myself  all  out  this  morning  trying 
to  decide  whether  1  would  better  trim  my  'white 
albatross  '  with  '  Spanish  blonde  '  or  '  Languedoc.'  ' 


A    FASHIONABLE   SUFFERER.  55 

Lady  A.  "  Ah !  you  must  be  careful,  Madeleine; 
don't  do  too  much  ;  that  's  your  trouble,  dear ; 
good-by." 

"•  Good-by,"  said  the  Beautiful  N.  E.,  plain 
tively,  as  the  door  closed  upon  her  two  friends. 

"My  dear  Cynicus,"  said  Lady  Angela,  when 
thev  were  both  on  the  street,  "  what  do  you  think 
is  the  mattei1  with  Madeleine  ;  has  she  any  real 
disease  ?  "' 

"  Whatever  she  has,  I  could  cure  her  in  an  hour, ' 
said  'Mr. -Douce. 

Lady  A.   "  How,  I  should  like  to  know?" 

Cyn.  "Tell  her  to  do  something." 

Lady  A.   "'  She  's  a  splendid  creature  !  " 

Cyn.  ""  Yes,  she  I. is  a  splendid  creature,  dving  of 
inanition.'' 

Lady  A.  k*  Well  !  dying  of  inanition  is  doing 
something,  is  n't  it  ?  " 

Cyn.  "-Yes,  beautiful  woman,  it  is;  but  inani 
tion,  being  merely  action  begun,  demands  too 
much  exertion  for  her  to  ever  finish  :  and  that 's 
the  whole  trouble  with  this  peculiar  class.  They 
are  always  f/oin<~/  "to  do  something.'  " 

Lady  A.  "•  Ah,  C'ynicus,  you  are  too  hard  on 
our  friend  ;  but  seriously,  let  's  do  what  we  can  to 
get  her  out  of  this  miserable  condition,"  said  Lady 
Angela. 

"  I  '11  do  everything  that  's  proper,"  replied  Mr. 
Douce,  with  mock  seriousness. 


CHAPTER   IV. 

AN     INTKRMKDIATK     OH     1'UHGATORIAL    CHAI'TKR    ALLOWED 
FOR    TRANSMIGRATION   OK  .SOULS  TO  "  PARADISE." 

AKTKI;  the  first  day  of  July  city  life  laconics  in 
tolerable.  Thirsty,  heated,  and  kiln-dried  human 
ity  hankers  for  "•  ^reen  fields  and  pastures  new." 
The  idea  of  eventually  ,i;'(>in<jf  to  Paradise  is  a  cher 
ished  one  in  every  heart.  It  is  called  "  home  "  l»y 
many  people  ;  and  \\  hat  term  is  fraught  \\  ith  more 
tender  emotions  !  There  are,  however,  many  little 
paradises  which  lie  scattered  about  life's  highway, 
which  will  do  very  well  for  the  summer  months, 


A    FASHIONABLE    SUFFERER.  f>7 

and  which  convert  the  sorrows  of  exhausted  nature 
into  temporary  bliss.  Scented  clover  and  Alderney 
cows,  brown  roads  and  quantities  of  cream,  soft 
beds,  and  lots  of  money,  are  good,  solid,  earthly 
substitutes  for  the  real  paradisiacal  article.  They 
certainly  do  effect  a  marvelous  restoration  of  both 
mental  and  physical  powers ;  and  at  the  same 
time  they  are,  perhaps,  better  suited  to  the  present 
groveling  and  sinful  condition  of  man  than  the 
other  one  would  be. 

Green  peas  and  asparagus  are  delicious  vegeta 
bles,  but  when  coupled  with  the  consciousness  of 
their  being  grown  in  one's  own  garden,  they  taste 
even  better  than  when  eaten  from  the  inimitable 
cuisine  of  Delmonico. 

There  is  a  feeling  of  pride,  equal  to  that  of  a 
Roman  emperor,  when  one  can  sit  back  in  his 
chair,  at  his  own  table,  and  say:  "  Try  these  peas, 
they  are  the  '  Early  Favorite.'  My  gardener  has  a 
secret  of  *  forcing  '  which  enables  us  to  have  them 
on  our  table  ten  days  before  any  of  our  neighbors. 
Take  some  more,  we  have  oceans  of  them.  '  Even 
though  it  is  not  "good  form"  to  dilate  on  the  mer 
its  of  one's  own  larder,  still,  somehow,  it  will 
''come  out''  before  dinner  is  over.  There  inevita 
bly  conies  an  overweening  temptation  which  can 
not  be  withstood  by  an  ordinary  owner  of  a  villa,  to 
remark  off-hand,  and  incidentally  of  course,  about 
the  ••mutton."  or  the  "gosling,"  or  the  "cauli 
flower,"  or  the  something  else,  which  was  raised  on 


58  A    FASHIONABLE    SUFFERER. 

one's  own  plantation.  And  why  should  n't  we  talk 
about  "these  things,"  I'd  like  to  know?  I  con 
sider  that  summer-time  is  given  to  those  of  us  who 
are  fortunate  enough  to  own  kitchen-gardens  and 
cold  graperies,  Southdown  mutton  and  green  geese, 
for  the  precise  purpose  of  expressing  ourselves 
in  just  this  seignorial  manner.  It  engenders  in  us 
a  healthy  sort  of  diathesis  which  goes  a  long  way 
towards  bringing  back  tone  and  fibre  to  our  city- 
jaded  natures;  and  also  enables  us  to  return  to 
gloomy  brick  walls  and  flashing  electric  light  with 
a  fresh  stock  of  endurance.  It  fairly  makes  a,  city 
man's  nature  expand  to  take  a  stroll  some  fine  .June 
morning  over  the  fresh,  green  hills  and  sit  down 
beneath  the  shadowy  elms.  It  opens  the  cockles  of 
his  heart  to  listen  to  the  countless  songs  of  the 
birds  which  are  caroling  above  him  ;  and  for  the 
moment  "selling  short"  and  other  "lingo"'  are, 
meaningless  expressions. 

He  finds,  too,  that  he  had  no  idea  there  were  so 
many  birds  in  the.  world,  and,  as  to  that  matter,  so 
many  ln«js  either,  which  makes  him  forthwith 
spring  up  from  the  grass,  and  shake  out  his  white 
handkerchief  whereon  he  sat.  (City  people,  when 
they  sit  down,  always  spread  their  white  handker 
chiefs  on  the  grass,  for  fear  of  malaria,  and  exam 
ine  their  ears  for  spiders,  <fec.) 

lie  walks  rapidly  buck  to  his  breakfast  with  a 
healthy  appetite  and  a  renewed  amount  of  vigor. 

These  trivialities  are  all-important  to  city  people. 


A   FASHIONABLE    SUFFERER. 


59 


They  "  rehabilitate  "  their  nerves,  and  are  a  deal 
more  efficacious  than  all  the  tonics  of  the  pharma 
copoeia  :  bringing  roses  to  the  cheeks  when  qui 
nine  and  iron  utterly  fail. 

To  one  of  these  earthly  paradises  above  sug 
gested,  a  thirsty,  sun-scorched,  and  tired  humanity 
incontinently  Hies  with  its  trunks,  its  poodles,  and 
its  white-livered  children. 


ACT   II. 

Scene  :  "  Paradise."     Time  :  Summer  Vacation. 
CHAPTER    I. 

KVKIIY-DAY    KXPKUIKNCKS    WITH    (JIKLS  AND     TIIINOS,     CON 
TAINED   IN  TIIK   DIAHY  OF  AN    17NFOUT  UNATK  (JKNT1. K.MAN. 

THIS  is  intended  to  be  a  pleasant  scene  among 
tlie  rolling  hills  of  Tucit-Kennoc.  The  ]iar)v  gath 
ered  on  the  lawn  of  the  popular  host  of  Paradise  is 
a,  congenial  one,  and  consists  of  the  following  per 
sons  not  before  introduced  to  the  reader:  — 

Amelia,  a  prude.  This  lady  is  a  handsome 
blue-eyed  blonde:  thoroughly  delightful  to  know, 
charming  to  think  about,  and  forever  to  be  de 
pended  upon. 

Consuelo,  the  Countess,  is  the  usult  of  the  earth," 


A    FASHIONABLE   SUFFKRKR.  01 

embodying  perfectly  Sir  Walter's  line  "  when  pain 
and  anguish,"  etc. 

( i  race;  is  a  black-eyed,  black-haired  darling,  just 
seventeen,  —  dear,  dangerous,  and  dreamy. 

Hildegarde  is  a  winsome,  sympathetic,  golden- 
haired,  Germanesque  lassie,  who  will  well  repay 
the  affection  of  the  noble-hearted  man  who  can 
win  her. 

Mrs.  George  Madison  Taggart  of  Middletowii, 
Conn.,  is  a  lady  who  has  recently  been  added  to  the 
number  of  guests  at  "Hill-Top."  She  is  a  precise; 
and  discreet  sort  of  person,  who  appears  to  think 
that  the;  world  ought  to  listen  whein  she  speaks. 
Her  remarks  are  delivered  in  jerky  epigrams. 

Lueretia  Davis  is  a  little,  sombre-dressed  indi 
vidual,  with  novelistic  tendencies,  whose  name1  has 
bee'n  connected  with  a  romantic  affair  in  Hartford. 
She  always  speaks  with  emotion,  as  if  every  wore! 
distressed  her. 

Lawrence  is  a  keen,  old-fashioned  observer,  de 
lighting  in  a  gooel  joke,  cultivated,  traveled,  and 
altogether  reliable ;  moreover,  he  is  a  friend  of 
Mr.  Douce. 

This  pleasant  company  was  seated  on  the  green 
grass,  chatting,  sewing,  ami  laughing  at  what  had 
transpired  in  the  miniature  world  about  them  since1 
they  last  settled  the  '"affairs  e>f  the  nation." 
These  "affairs"  we're  "adjusted"  regularly  every 
afternoon,  only  to  break  forth  afresh  into  new 
complications  on  the  next. 


62  A   FASHIONABLE    SUFFERER. 

The  long  shadows  of  the  pines  were  already  per 
ceptible  on  the  lawn.  Some  of  the  fair  boarders 
enjoyed  their  siestas:  others  lay  in  hammocks 
or  reclined  with  easy  grace  on  the  short,  green 
grass.  A  soft  westerly  breeze  came  soughing  over 
from  "•  hamlet-hill,"  while  the  long-billed  hum 
ming-birds  were  tremblingly  poised  among  the 
honeysuckles. 

"  Do  you  know,  lie  is  going  to  tell  us  something 
about  his  experiences  with  girls?'1  said  sweet  Ame 
lia-,  the  prude. 

'"Such  a  subject  requires  to  be  handled  very 
gingerly,  and  I  don't  wish  Grace  to  hear  it,"  spoke 
iij)  ('onsiH'lo,  the  Countess. 

"And  discreetly,  too,"  added  Ilildegarde,  "for 
you  all  remember  what  trouble  came  of  just  my 
telling  about  a  little  experience  /had  once'.''" 

'•No  honorable  man  would  ever  impart  to  an  in 
discriminate  audience  what  had  transpired  in  his 
privileged  intimacy  with  the  gentler  sex,"  said 
Mrs.  George  Madison  Taggart  from  Middle  town. 

"  And  expect  to  hold  his  head  up  in  decent  so 
ciety  afterwards,"  murmured  Lucretia  Davis,  the 
woman  with  a  history. 

"Oh,  there  he  comes!  Mr.  Douce,  yon  won't 
be  allowed  to  impart  these  horrid  revelations  to 
any  one  but  myself.  These  other  ladies  are  too  un 
sophisticated  to  bear  them,"  spoke  up  dear  Miss 
Brown. 

"  We  never  said  so,"  murmured  a  dozen  voices. 


A    FASHIONABLE    SUFFERER.  63 

"Well,  but  I  know  your  mothers  arc  all  very 
particular  as  to  what  you  hear  and  read,  so  Mr. 
Douce  shall  tell  me  these  revelations  in  all  their 
wild  license,  and  then  I  can  make  such  emendations 
as  I  think  proper." 

"  What  revelations  do  you  refer  to'/  "  said  Cyn- 
icus  Douce. 

"  Why,  some  of  your  love  affairs  !  " 

"Don't    be    afraid:    J    never    thought  of  telling 

o  o 

them." 

"  ^  on  said  so  this  morning  at  the  '•corner,'"  ex 
claimed  the  blonde-haired  Amelia. 

".Not  at  all!  You  certainly  misunderstood  me 
then,  tor  I  spoke  of  reading  a  sort  of  diarv,  written 
by  an  unfortunate  stranger, — supposed  to  be  a 
great  personage,  I  believe,  —  dead  now;  giving  an 
account  of  some  of  his  experiences  in  life." 

*•  J  'in  rather  disappointed,"  replied  Amelia,  "for 
I  hoped  to  hear  his  confessions."' 

"What  a  pity."  said  (irace,  "my  curiosity  would 
at  last  have  been  satisfied  on  some  points." 

I>ut  (irace  was  immediately  "squelched"  by 
Aunt  Consuelo,  who  never  was  in  love  —  but  once. 

"Ladies,  you  all  mistake  me,"  said  Mr.  Douce. 
"I  thought  it  might  amuse  you,  as  we  sat  here 
under  the  shadow  of  Benjamin's  pines,  to  read 
some  portions  of  a  curious  MSS.  found  in  a  cham 
ber  of  an  unknown  gentleman  who  sighed  himself 
to  death  last  winter  in  the  fourth  story  of  No. 
14i»,7G3  Walnut  Street,  Philadelphia." 


64  A    FASHIONABLE    SUFFERER. 

"  Oh,  you  're  joking  !  It 's  not  really  so,  is  it  ?  " 
said  Hildegarde. 

"  Yes  ;  really  so  !  They  found  him  lying,  (lying 
of  siu'hino1,  his  head  resting  gracefully  on  his  left 

O  O7  t/ 

arm,  his  curly  hair  threaded  with  silver." 

'"•Caused  by  disappointment,  probably,"  said 
Amelia. 

"•  Yes  !  caused  by  disappointment  and  despair," 
said  Mr.  Douce. 

tk  Poor  boy  !  "   —  "  Was  lie  handsome  —  and  pen 
niless?"    -"How    he    must    have    suffered!" 
"  Do  you  suppose  he  had  a  title?  "  — asked  several 
voices. 

"Ladies,"  replied  Mr.  I).,  "I  know  not  the 
particulars;  simply  these  facts :  his  body  and  this 
MSS.  were  found  together.  The  pen,  with  the  ink- 
still  wet  upon  it,  had  dropped  from  his  nerveless 
grasp,  and  was  discovered  lying  on  the  lloor  beside 
his  almost  lifeless  remains.  They  buried  him  at 
'Laurel  Hill,1  in  a  nameless  grave,  until  his  family 
(if  he  had  one)  could  be  informed  of  the  event." 

Ladies.   "Did  he  leave  no  effects?" 

"  Ladies,  he  left  nothing." 

Ladies.  "  Why  !  he  must  have  had  "  — 

At  this  moment  Cynicus  Donee  saw  his  fail- 
friend,  the  N.  E.,  slowly  emerge  from  the  new 
cottage,  and  approach  the  charming  group  assem 
bled  on  the  lawn. 

P>y  dint  of  the  combined  persuasions  of  her  doe- 
tor  and  friends,  "dear  Madeleine  "  had  consented 


A    FASHIONABLE   SUFFERER.  07 

to  try  what  good  a  month  among  the  hills  would 
accomplish  for  her  weakened  nervous  system.  Her 
maid,  Thomas  the  quiet  man-servant,  her  quinine, 
her  props  —  her  little  hair  pillow  to  stuff  under  her 
left  ear,  —  and  all  the  other  petty  paraphernalia  of 
invalidism,  had  been  hauled  up  from  the  station 
bv  instalments,  and  at  last  were  saf'elv  lodged  on 
the  ground-floor  of  the  new  villa  on  the  hill-top. 

The  X.  1C.  said  she  was  "miserable,"  but  in 
spite  of  that  declaration,  to  outsiders  she  ap 
peared  beautiful,  while  the  two  roses  on  her 
cheeks,  and  her  red  pouting  lips,  suggested  any 
thing  but  nervous  exhaustion. 

Having  safely  deposited  the  blushing  invalid  — 
with  her  cloud  of  lace  and  ribbon  —  in  the  new 
hammock,  and  assisted  Ladv  Angela  to  alight  from 
her  "  buckboard "'  and  join  the  pleasant  partv.  our 
friend  Douce  unfolded  the  unfortunate'  gentleman's 
MSS.,  while  u  Old  Harry."  the  dog,  flung  himself 
at  his  feet  in  the  cool  grass,  and  the  red  squirrels 
stopped  cracking  the  cones  overhead,  to  listen. 

TIFE    STUAXCElfs    MSS. 

'•This  is  no  history.  I  don't  know  what  it  is, 
and  care  less.  I  write  merely  to  stop  myself  from 
this  horrible  sighing,  for  I'm  dying  of  sighing, 
caused  by  continual  disappointment  —  no  matter 
what. 

••  The  only  way  I  get  the  least  relief  is  by  trying 
to  divert  my  mind  from  that  which  is  crushing  it 


68  A    FASHIONABLE    SUFFERER. 

by  writing  down  anything,  everything  that  comes 
into  my  head — about  my  youth,  my  travels,  my 
observations,    my    experiences.     Nothing   much  — 
very  like  what  happens  to  everybody  else. 

••  I  Jut  the  mere  act  of  jotting  it  down  stops  my 
sighing  and  my  repining  for  the  time:  that's  why 
I'm  doing  it.  .  .  .  How  well  I  remember  my  lirst 
experience  in  life.  It  was  early  in  September  that 
the  little  girl  in  the  gray  pelisse  sang  for  me  — 

'  Over  the  far  blue  mountains.' 

No  angel  tones  were  ever  sweeter,  no  siren  voice 
ever  touched  nearer  a  little  boy's  heart.  But  what 
tea  is  that  perfume  she  used  to  have  about  her?  ver 
bena?  patchouli?  musk?  peppermint?  What  was 
it?  '  Oh,' orris !  It  was  orris.  The  remembrance 
of  that,  odor  brings  back  with  it  a  Hood  of  delight 
ful  recollections.  What  a  clean,  upper  drawer  and 
fresh-linen  aroma  has  orris!  One  immediately 
thinks  of  mountains  of  tidy  collars  and  immaculate 
cuffs,  and  starched  hem-stitched  handkerchiefs. 

'•The  little  girl  with  the  gray  pelisse  had  all 
these;  and  when  on  calling  nights  I  caught  a  whilT 
of  this  orris-perfume  and  a  glimpse  of  all  those 
other  delicious  things  which  came  cantering  down 
the  front  stairs  to  see  me,  my  heart  throbbed  as  if 
it  would  ily  out  of  my  jacket. 

••  The  little  girl  with  the  gray  pelisse  was  older 
than  I  was,  and  consequently  possessed  more  of  whut 
1  afterwards  discovered  people  called  '  a  plomb  ' 


A   FASHIONABLE    SUFFERER.  69 

than  her  youthful  lovers  had.  The  boys  would  call 
upon  her  in  shoals  ;  and  it  was  a  common  sight  to 
see  ten  or  twelve,  of  them,  arrayed  in  their  best 
clothes,  ranged  along  in  chairs  in  her  drawing- 
room,  with  eyes  fixed  upon  their  idol,  and  ready^ 
to  '  giggle  '  at  the  slightest  suggestion.  A  boy's 
idea  of  bliss  is  to  laugh  immoderately  at  nothing. 
How  daintily  she  would  trip  up  to  the  long  row  of 
Jier  young  admirers  and  offer  to  each  one  a  seed 
cake,  saying,  '  Voulez-vous  du  gdtean?'  in  such 
siren  tones  as  were  perfectly  irresistible.  I  used 
to  take  my  cooky  with  trembling  hands,  while 
great  drops  of  perspiration  and  love  stood  on  my 
forehead. 

"And  then,  to  this  day,  I  don't  know  whether 
that  hair-bracelet  she  furtively  gave  me,  tied  with 
pink  ribbons,  was  really  her  own  hair  or  her 
maid's.  I  have  a  dark  suspicion  it  grew  on  this 
latter  creature's  head.  Somebody  told  me  it  did, 
—  forgotten  who,  possibly  a  rival.  But  that  dark 
suspicion  made  it  my  sad  and  imperative  duty  to 
snatch  the  loved  though  faded  object  from  my  wrist 
and  throw  it,  with  all  fury,  behind  the  back-log. 

'•Was  it  hers  or  was  it  not?  The  question  will 
never  be  settled,  and  perhaps  it  is  better  that  it 
should  remain  a  mystery. 

"  Ah,  dear  girl  !  I  thank  thee  for  the  delights  of 
that  first  experience  of  boyhood!  Each  little  chap 
ter  of  it  is  graven  on  my  heart.  The  plum-cake, 
the  little  billets-doux  hid  away  between  the  leaves 


70  A   FASHIONABLE   SUFFERER. 

of  the  fourth  book  on  the  second  shelf  of  the  first 
alcove,  in  the  public  library,  as  you  enter  ;  and 
then  the  valentines  !  k  None  know  then  but  to  love 
thee,'  etc.  Every  one  of  these  precious  memories 
is  as  vivid  as  if  I  had  cried  over  them  but  yester 
day.  iSo  king  was  prouder  than  I  was  in  my  little 
realm  of  love.  I  dwelt  of  a  truth  in  the  k  happy 
valley,'  until  one  day  a  great  elderly  snubby  man 
broke  into  my  elysium  and  stole  thee  away.  Poor 
unsuspicious  boy  that  I  was?  Why,  1  did  n't  know, 
dear  girl,  thou  ever  knew  him,  much  more  loved 
him.  And  so  all  the  while  thou  wert  saying  '  Vou- 
fi'Z-roiis  du  (jdtcau''  in  those  dulcet  tones,  and  wert 
sending  to  thy  boyish  admirer  thy  maid  s  hair  tied 
with  ribbons,  instead  of  thine  own,  and  wert  indit 
ing  to  him  lines  of  constancy  ;  that  great  elderly 
rival  was  'making  up'  to  thee  with  his  insinuat 
ing  smiles,  which  thou  wert  appropriating  with 
consummate,  spirituelle  grace,  thus  cheat iirg  thy 
poor  callow  lover!  Longfellow  piped  a  solemn 
verity,  in  more  ways  than  one,  when  he  sang,  "  Tell 
me  not  in  mournful  numbers  —  things  are  not  what 
they  seem.'  An  eventful  career,  since  those  youth- 
till  days,  has  proven  that  not  only  little  girls,  but 
big  ones  as  well,  are  '  things  '  which  'are  not  what 
they  seem  to  be'  at  lirst,  and  before  they  know 
you  admire  them." 

After  reading  this  brief    but  harmless  episode, 
every  lady  got  up  and  sat  down  again  on  the  other 


A    FASHIONABLE    SUFFERER. 


71 


foot,  and  asked  each  other  some  of  those  regular 

O 

questions  which  usually  accumulate  after  occasions 
of  enforced  female  silence,  such,  for  instance,  as.  *  Is 
No.  !>0,  or  100,  the  best  cotton  to  mend  cambric 
dresses  with  ?  "  etc. 

Mr.  Douce  complacently  ate  a  peach  pending 
this  passing  flurry,  and  after  flinging  the  stone  clear 
over  the  white  fence  into  the  road  beyond,  went  on 
to  the  next  chapter  in  the  diary  of  the  unfortunate 
stranger,  which  was  entitled  :  — 


"A    CASK    OF    IIOMAX    FKVKIl. 

"  From  Malta  to  Messina,  thence  to  Xaples,  and 
so  on  to  Koine,  in  lime  for  the  ceremonies  of  Holy 
Week,  was  only  a  pilgrimage  of  love.  Every  step 
of  the  way  opened  lovelier  scenes  to  a  mind  already 
filled  with  beautiful  reminiscences  of  Naples  and 
the  upper  Nile.  When  Pius  IX.  first  became  Pope 


72  A    FASHIONABLE    SUFFERER. 

the  celebrations  clustering  about  the  Easter-tide 
were  gorgeously  observed  in  the  holy  city,  while 
the  Pontifical  States  were  still  an  acknowledged 
power  among  the  nations  of  the  earth.  Besides, 
a  dole?,  far  nic/nte  life  in  Egypt  had  created  a  zest 
for  more  stirring  scenes,  and  1  hailed  with  especial 
delight  the  dome  of  St.  Peter's,  which  I  caught 
sii-'ht  of  from  the  diligence  on  the  road  from  Porto 

?">  O 

d'Ansio. 

"  It  goes  without  saying,  that  IJome  was  full  of 
strangers,  and  I  soon  discovered  many  kind  friends 
whom  1  had  met  on  my  travels.  I  obtained,  with 
great  difficulty,  one  half  of  an  apartment  in  the 
Via  di  Bocca  Leone,  from  an  obliging  traveling  com 
panion,  from  whom  I  had  but  just  parted  at  Malta, 
and  felt  perfectly  contented  that  I  had  been  even 
so  fortunate  as  that.  There  is  but  one  Koine  in 
the  world,  and  life  in  the  city  in  the  'good  old 
times '  was  somewhat  different,  I  trow,  from  the 
more  modern  regime.  It  was  smaller  than  it  is 
now,  and  it  resembled  a  delicious  pdte,  composed 
of  the  choicest  morsels,  compressed  together  within 
the  smallest  compass. 

"There  were  some  delightful  English  acquaint 
ances  living  in  the  Via  Condotti,  whom  1  was  for 
tunate  enough  to  fall  in  with,  and  who  insisted 
upon  my  joining  their  party,  and  making,  in  their 
company,  the  tour  of  the  city.  These  lovely  peo 
ple —  only  two,  George  Melville,  and  his  wife  Gri- 
selda  — were  just  young  enough  to  appreciate 


A    FASHIONABLE    SUFFERER.  73 

everything.  They  had  money,  health,  and  no  chil 
dren,  so  they  floated  about  among  the  wonders  of 
the  world,  leading  a  most  fascinating  existence. 

"  I  knew  Melville's  wife  well,  and  was  keenly  ap 
preciative  of  her  courtesy  when  she  begged  me  to 
make  their  lodgings  my  ' loafing '  place.  We  met 
every  day  for  our  appointed  work.  Mrs.  Melville 
generally  made  the  bargains  for  our  carriage,  and 
1  would  'settle'  with  her  every  night  in  a  regular 
business-like  manner.  Those  sunny,  charming 
days  can  never  be  forgotten,  whisking  about  the 
narrow  streets  of  Rome  in  company  with  the  Mel- 
villes. 

u  In  the  many  pleasant  conversations  between  us, 
Mrs.  Melville  would  frequently  "run  me'  on  what 
she  chose  to  call  "  my  lonely  lot  '  in  the  world  ;  so 
that  1  told  her  that  my  fate  was  in  her  keeping, 
ami  that  she  must  become  responsible  for  it.  She 
clapped  her  white  hands  with  delight,  and  assured 
me  that  she  would  ever  serve  my  best  interests. 
One  afternoon  I  returned  late  from  a  tedious  and 
lonely  tramp  through  the  Catacombs,  to  find  lying 
on  mv  table  a  note  from  Mrs.  Melville,  which  ran 
something  like  this  :  — 

"  '  Thursday  noun,  A/>ril  4. 

"'  Mv  I>KAI:KST  FRIEND:  We  have  just  received 
news  that  (Jeorge's  niece,  Eleanor  Donald,  is  to  be 
with  us  dtirmtr  Holy  Week.  She  will  arrive  this 

O  . 

evening;  and  1  write  to  tell  you  to  be  sure  and 
come  to  the  Via  Condotti,  and  make  one  of  our 


74  A    FASHIONABLE    SUFFERER. 

tea-party.  I  wish  to  tell  you  something  about  her. 
She  is  a  splendid  girl,  about  twenty  years  old,  beau 
tiful,  intelligent,  but  somewhat  saddened  at  present 
by  the  death  of  an  intimate  friend. 

u  k  I  know  you  will  like  her,  and  in  this  connec 
tion  I  wisli  to  say,  that,  bearing  in  mind  the  sacred 
promise  I  made  to  yon  in  icgard  to  the  custody  of 
your  fate,  I  deliberately  take  this  means  of  bring 
ing  both  of  yon  together.  Conic  bv  eight  o'clock. 
"• k  Your  constant  friend, 

kv  '  (iKlSKLDA   M  KLVILLE. 
'"  VIA  CONDOTTI,  IS'miHTo  5.' 

u  I  found  ten  or  twelve  pleasant  people  assembled 
in  the  Melville  salon;  two  or  three  young  girls, 
several  artists,  and  some  older  parties. 

kk  I  had  good  opportunity  for  observing  Miss  Don 
ald  from  the  'corner  of  my  eye"  before.  I  was  pre 
sented.  I  perceived  that  she  was  neatlv  dressed, 
in  what  1  presumed  would  be  called  half-mourning. 
She  had  a  comelv  and  delicate  figure,  and  also  an 
air  of  repose  and  simplicity  which  was  quite  charm 
ing.  Very  gray,  quizzical  exes,  with  marked  lashes 
and  eye-brows,  a  thin,  well-shaped  nose,  a  full, 
round  throat,  decked  with  sonic  dainty  female 
' fluffery,'  a  blooming  complexion,  and  largish 
mouth.  Artistically  speaking,  her  chin  was  the 
1  est  part  of  her  face,  being  round  and  well-modeled, 
wi;h  a  dimple  just  in  the  middle  of  it  when  she 
smiled.  I  looked  at  her  ears  —  always  a  point  of 


A    FASHIONABLK    SUFFKKKR.  7o 


especial  interest  to  me  —  and  found  them  small, 
with  lobes  unattached  to  the  cheek. 

".Just  then  Mrs.  Melville  took  me  in  convoy,  and 
with  a  quiet  inclination  of  her  pretty  head,  Eleanor 
Donald  and  I  were  made  acquainted. 

"  *  May  I  sit  beside  you?'  said  I. 

u  l  I  wish  you  would.  I  'in  so  glad  to  meet  you  -. 
I've  heard  vour  name  so  often  irom  the  Melvilles.' 

"  "'riiev  are  very  good,  I  'm  sure." 

"  •  ( )h,  ves  ;  and  they  sa  v  you  are  such  a  traveler. 
You  must  come,  and  pilot  us  about  this  wonderful 
city." 

"  '  Indeed,  I  shall  be  proud  to.  Are  you  fond  of 
anv  particular  branch  of  the  arts? 

""Of  course  I  am.  As  an  English  girl  I  like  to 
sketch,  and  just  now  I  am  crazy  to  see  some  of  the 
original  cravons  of  the  old  masters.  Do  you  draw 
yourself  ?  '  said  she. 

"•A  little;  at  least  I  try  to  think  that  I  do." 

"  •  Then  we  can  sympathize,'  she  replied,  with 
winsomeness. 

"  *  An  Italian  skv  is  very  sympathetic.' 

"•  •  Ves  ;  one  feels  in  Italy  like  a  new  creature. 
There  are  so  mam  objects  about  one  to  stimulate 
taste,  and  lire  the  imagination,  that  one's  heart  is 
alive  to  the  most  charming  emotions,  unknown  111 
our  befogged  island  ! ' 

"•Were  you  [(leased  with  Naples?' 

"'More  than  pleased — enchanted.' 

"' k  I  wonder  if  you  visited  the  little  church  above 


76  A    FASHIONABLE    SUFFERER. 

the  city  on  the  heights — under  the  supervision  of 
the  monks,  you  know  —  and  saw  from  there  that 
magnificent  view? ' 

"'Ah,  indeed]  did.  I  never  shall  forget  the 
whole  occasion.  In  the  first  place,  the  church  it 
self  is  too  beautiful  for  anything;  and  then  that 
view  from  the  Cloisters!  It  is  beyond  words;  one 
must  behold  it  in  silence  ! ' 

"'  Von  remember  Capri  in  the  distance?' 

"•  *  ( )f  course  ;  and  the  blue  grotto.' 

"'And  the  a/nre  waters  of  the  bay  curving  into 
a  crescent,  and  tumbling-  in  graceful  breakers  on 
the  yellow  shore  ?  " 

"  'And  the  red-capped  sailors  dotted  about  among1 
their  nets  and  fishing-boats!'  added  she,  with  de 
light. 

"  *  And  then  old  Vesuvius  smoking  lazily  in  the 
distance  ? ' 

""Yes;  and  then  you  remember,  as  you  stand 
there,  the  roar  of  the  city  below  you  comes  swell 
ing  up  the  heights  into  the  cloisters  ! " 

"  k  You  have  a  keen  observation,  I  should  judge.' 

"  "  An  individual  dead  to  the  beauties  which  clus 
ter  about  Naples  ought  never  to  have  the  privilege 
of  going  there.' 

""Upon  my  life!  I  think  you're  charming!  1 
have  n't  met  with  so  much  appreciative  talent  since 
1  left  Upper  Egypt ! ' 

"'Why  Upper  Egypt?' 

"  k  Because  I  met  there,  an  enthusiast,  — an  actor, 
an  archa'ologist,  and  photographer,  all  in  one.' 


A  FASHIONABLE:  SUFFKRKR. 
Go  on  and  toll  me  all  about  it.' 


77 


"She  inspired  mo  witli  unwonted  enthusiasm,  ;tnd 
I  went  on  describing  tlio  delight  of  a  life  on  a  da- 
habeah.  and  tlio  (juaint  experiences  of  a  winter  on 
the  Nile.  As  I  related  my  ascent  of  the  pyramids, 
;ind  mv  descent  into  Cheops,  my  moonlight  prowls 
about  Luxor  and  Karnac.  mv  donkey  rides  to  the 
tombs  of  the  king's,  and  the  ('olossi  of  Thebos,  her 
groat  gray  eyes  opened  with  intelligent  interest, 
and.  was  another  thrilling  incentive  for  me  to  go  on. 
I  described  to  her  the  delightful  sensations  of  float 
ing  down  the  Nile  back  to  Cairo;  the  peculiar  brill 
iancy  of  the  Egyptian  moonlight ;  the  weird  ap 
pearance  of  the  great  bonfires  along  the  shores  at 
night,  and  the  motley  appearance  of  the  turbaned 


78  A    FASHIONABLE    SUFFERER. 

sailors,  as  in  their  light  they  listened  to  the  profes 
sional  story-teller ;  of  the  groaning  sakias  and  the 
mournful  shadoof;  of  the  visits  to  the  different 
mosques  in  the  city;  the  wonderful  performances 
of  the  whirling  dervishes  and  the  fanatical  fakirs; 
—  in  fact,  all  the  experiences  of  the  past  season 
flashed  back  upon,  my  memory,  under  the  influence 
of  her  charming  society,  and  I  depicted  them  he- 
fore  her  in  the  most  brilliant  colors.  Time  always 
flies,  and  that  night  it  sped  away  with  unwonted 
rapidity,  so  that  we  were  both  startled  by  the  sud 
den  appearance  of  Mrs.  Melville,  who  said:  — 

'*  w  Why  !  where  have  yon  both  been  ?  we  are  all 
out  at  supper  a  half  an  hour  ago,  and  J  've  come 
back  to  get  yon  ;  did  if  t  you  hear  it  announced  ?  ' 

"  With  some  confusion,  I  confessed  that  I  did  n't, 
while  my  delightful  companion,  coming  to  my  res 
cue,  gayly  added,  *  How  could  we  hear,  as  we  were 
both  'way  up'  in  the  top  part  of  Egypt  when  the 
servant  came  in  ?  ' 

"I  gave  her  my  arm  and  we  went  in  to  supper, 
and  I  fed  her  with  all  the  tempting  dainties  spread 
out  before  us.  I  noticed,  however,  that  she  only 
played  with  her  fork,  and  seemed  to  be  thinking 
over  the  long  journey  we  had  just  taken  together. 

"  \Ye  had  become  by  this  time  so  well  acquainted 
that  whenever  we  met  in  company  we  insensibly 
gravitated  together.  The  delight  that  I  felt  at 
the  sight  of  so  many  architectural  and  artistic 
relics  was  greatly  heightened  by  the  presence  of 


A    FASHIONABLE    SUFFERER.  79 

a  sympathizing  companion.  We  wandered  together 
through  the  galleries,  and  while  the  rest  of  the 
party  would  stray  away  into  other  portions,  we 
often  found  ourselves  seated  before  the  gem  of  the 
collection,  utterly  oblivious  to  surrounding  objects. 
Never  was  I  so  happy  before.  Never  felt  1  so  keen 
a  joy.  lp  to  this  time  we  had  said  nothing  to 
each  other  of  any  particular  personal  preference, 
still  there  was  a  certain  unmistakable  exaltation 
resulting  from  our  mutual  presence.  Every  day 
that  we  met,  her  large  grav  eves  spoke  the  kind 
liest  greeting,  and  whenever  we  parted.  I  found 
myself  the  joyful  possessor  of  some  little  bud  or 
flower  plucked  by  her  own  fair  hands. 

"  Such   emotions,  when   once  aroused,  seldom   go 

O 

to  rest.  They  smoulder  steadily  on,  involving  each 
moment  more  of  the  vital  nature. 

"•What  is  this  that  I  feel?'  I  would  often  re 
peat  to  mvself.  •  So  strange  !  so  utterly  foreign  to 
my  heart  ?  It  is  slowlv  consuming  my  very  life. 
If  I  try  to  speak,  1  cannot  articulate;  if  I  keep  si 
lent,  I  shall  die.' 

"•So  the  days  rolled  swiftly  by.  The  family 
party  went  regularly  on  its  round  of  sight-seeing, 
while  she  in  my  company,  and  I  in  hers,  trotted 
about  the  streets  together,  shopping  and  lunching, 
and  dining  and  chatting  :  all  so  naturally,  all  so 
entirely  without  reserve.  On  one  occasion  it  was 
proposed  to  visit  the  Vatican  gallery  by  torch-light ; 
the  effect  of  the  flambeaux  on  the  sculptures  being 


80  A    FASHIONABLE    SUFFERER. 

exceptionally  line.  So  it  was  agreed  that  the  fam 
ily  in  the  Via  Condotti,  together  with  some  pleas 
ant  young  men,  newly  arrived  from  Milan,  should 
form  an  agreeable  party  for  this  expedition.  There 
was  delicious  moonlight  at  the  time,  so  that  we 
would  have  the  opportunity  of  first  observing  its 
weird  effect  upon  the  exterior  of  St.  Peter's  and  the 
Vatican,  before  witnessing  the  wonders  to  lie  un 
veiled  to  us  under  the  flaring  influence  of  artificial 
illumination  within  their  classic  walls.  Our  family, 
-I  say  'our'  family,  because  I  began  to  consider 
myself  one  of  its  members,  —  our  family  were  al 
ready  engaged  to  pass  that  evening  with  some  ar 
tistic  friends  living  near  the,  Capitol,  and  so  it  was 
arranged  to  visit  the  Vatican  by  eight  o'clock,  and 
then  drive  across  the  Tiber  afterwards,  to  our 
friends  upon  the  hill. 

"•  A  person  who  has  formed  one  of  a  procession 
which  has  wandered  through  the  silent  galleries  of 
the  Vatican,  led  on  by  the  flickering  candle-light, 
will  remember  the  strange  and  mysterious  effect 
produced  upon  the  silent  statues  ranged  in  long 
lines  on  either  side.  The  pale  and  serious  counte 
nances  of  Olympian  Jove  and  divine  Apollo,  of 
graceful  torso,  and  youthful  nymph,  under  such 
influence,  produce  a  most  peculiar  effect  upon 
the  beholder.  The  eyes  of  that  speechless,  mar 
ble  company  seem  to  follow  the  receding  pro 
cession  with  grave  inquiry,  as  if  it  had  broken  in 
upon  their  privacy  with  unwonted  license.  The 


A    FASHIONABLE    SUFFERER.  81 

young'  girl  at  my  side,  in  obedience  to  sueli  impres 
sions,  clung  to  my  arm  as  it'  for  protection.  Such 
an  experience  was  not  calculated  to  inspire  our 
company  with  much  hilarity,  the  absence  of  which 
1  noticed  as  we  drove  by  the  Castle  of  St.  Angelo, 
and  across  the  yellow  Tiber,  to  fulfill  our  engage 
ment. 

"  The  night  was  somewhat  cloudy  at  times,  but 
soon  again  our  carriage  would  be  flooded  by  the 
moonlight. 

"  After  the  enjoyment  for  an  hour  or  two  of 
charming  society,  —  looking  over  most  interesting 
artistic  productions,  conversing  with  intelligent 
people,  and  imbibing  with  it-  all  a  sort  of  beatific 
emotion,  only  to  be  experienced  by  the  enthusiastic 
traveler  in  dear  old  Rome,  —  the  time  for  our  de 
parture  drew  near. 

"•  Kleanor  Donald  was  seated  near  the  window, 
and  we  watched  together  the  bright  moon  as  she 
sailed  in  and  out  of  the  hurrying  clouds,  seeming  at 
times  to  nod  and  beckon  to  us  from  her  fairy  car. 

"  •  What  a  night  to  visit  the  Coliseum/  said  I. 

*•  '  Delicious  !'  replied  mv  companion,  "if  I  only 
could  ! 

"'  You  know  it  is  a  great  feat  to  have  visited  the 
grand  old  ruin  at  midnight.' 

••  •  Oh,  but  why  can't  I  ?  "  cried  she.  "  It  is  n't  a 
long  way  from  here.  I  'd  give  anything  I  possess 
to  go  there.' 

"  •  Why  not  ask  your  uncle  and   aunt  :  perhaps 


82  A    FASHIONABLE   SUFFERER. 

they  would  all  like  to  go,  the  night  is  so  wonder 
fully  fine.' 

"  '  Yes,'  said  she,  l  I  '11  propose  it.' 

"  She  tripped  away  from  where  we  sat,  to  the 
group  which  occupied  the  opposite  corner,  and 
there  I  watched  her  eager  and  rosy  mouth  as  it  un 
folded  her  desired  project. 

"  k  One  may  not  visit  Rome  but  once,  and  never 
have  such  another  moonlight  as  this.  Why  not  all 
go  ?  ' 

tk  k  Why  not,  indeed?  ' 

"  •  Well,  come,  on  !  ' 

"•  And  k  come  on  '  they  all  agreed  to  do.  We 
walked.  There  were1  eight  of  us  :  the  uncle  and 
aunt,  the  two  young  men  from  Milan,  and  the  two 
Miss  Langworthys  from  America,  besides  Kleanor 
Donald  and  myself. 

vw  Insensibly  and  gradually  we  became  separated 
from  the  rest  of  our  party,  and  took  our  way 
toward  the  old  ruin  by  a  path  I  knew  full  well. 
The  others  went  —  I  never  knew  exactly  where. 
They  either  lost  their  way  or  else  gave  up  the  ex 
pedition  altogether,  intimidated  by  the  lateness  of 
the  hour  and  fear  of  Roman  fever. 

"  Kleanor  Donald  and  I  kept  on.  I  would  n't 
have  stopped  in  my  purpose  had  I  met  in  my  path 
one  of  the  ancient  gladiators  himself.  \Ve  p-radii 

o  o 

ally  neared  the  imposing  old  pile,  and  paused  for 
an  instant  to  admire  its  gloomy  magnificence  in  the 
fitful  moonlight.  Curiously  enough  I  noticed  an 


A    FASHIONABLE    SUFFERER.  83 

amiable-looking  and  sociable  black  dog  emerge 
from  the  surrounding  shadow  and  attach  himself  to 
our  party  as  if  he  belonged  to  us.  He  wagged  his 
great  tail  in  a  friendly  manner,  while  his  panting 
breath  was  the  only  sound  to  be  heard,  as  we 
passed  through  the  entrance  of  the  Coliseum. 


u  Here  we  were  at  last  in  a  spot  so  memorable  in 
the  world's  history  ;  and  what  was  better,  at  the 
witching  hour  of  midnight  :  and  what  was  best, 
with  the  girl  of  all  girls  on  my  arm.  My  graceful 
companion  hesitated  a  moment,  but  then  creeping 
up  a  little  closer  to  me,  as  if  for  protection,  we  ad 
vanced  into  the  middle  of  the  arena,  and  seated 
ourselves  just  under  the  cross  which  was  erected  in 
this  consecrated  spot.  We  sat  together,  silently 
watching  the  moon  scud  through  the  clouds  and 
then  sail  out  of  them  again  ;  at  one  time  casting 
the  whole  amphitheatre  into  shadow,  then  flooding 
it  with  silver  light.  The  dark  arched  recesses  of  the 
ancient  ruin  became  peopled  with  invisible  forms 
created  by  excited  fancy,  while  the  absolute  still- 


84  A    FASHIONABLE    SUFFERER. 

ness  which  reigned  about  us  acted  like  a  magic 
spell. 

"  '  Think,'  said  I,  hardly  above  a  whisper,  '  in 
this  vacant  and  lonesome  spot  were  once  heard  the 
prayers  of  dying  martyrs  mixed  with  the  jargon  of 
maddened  beasts.  On  this  arena  the  rough  gladia 
tor  and  the  delicate  Christian  woman  have  died  for 
their  faith  !  ' 

" '  Yes  !  '  she  replied,  in  a  low,  tremulous  voice  ; 
"isn't  it  wonderful  what  grand  achievements  faith 
in  (Jod  will  cause  the  weakest  of  us  to  perform?' 

"After  a  pause  I  rejoined  in  the  same  half-whis 
per  :  '  It  seems  to  me,  with  you  at  my  side,  though 
all  the  world  was  mine  enemy,  there  could  be  a 
faith  so  strong  that  one  might  die  for  it,  even  in 
these  later  days!'  As  I  said  these  words  a  slight 
tremor  seemed  to  sei/e  upon  her,  and  I  carefully 
wrapped  the  thick  mantilla  about  her  delicate 
shoulders,  whereupon  we  became  silent  once  more. 

"The  old  black  dog  was  quite  social,  and  lay  at 
our  feet  peacefully  sleeping  in  a  domestic  sort  of 
way,  while  the  shadow  of  the  cross  erected  in  the 
middle  of  the  circus  was  mercifully  thrown  directly 
over  the  spot  where  we  sat  together. 

u  \Ve  heard  a  distant  clock  strike  midnight,  and 
were  somewhat  awed  by  the  hoot  of  an  owl  perched 
high  up  among  the  shattered  stone  galleries.  The 
mystic  spell  was  still  about  us,  which  prevented  us 
from  moving,  and  I  looked  upon  the  dear  soul  at  my 
side  with  an  interest  I  can  never  forget.  The  pale 


A    FASHIONABLE    SUFFERER.  85 

light  of  the  moon  shone  full  into  her  countenance, 
and  I  saw  her  beautiful  open  gray  eyes  glistening 
with  tears,  and  looking,  as  it  were,  far  away  into 
the  future. 

uThe  dews  of  evening  had  made  her  waving  tresses 
dank  and  heavy,  which  transformed  her  for  the  mo 
ment  into  one  of  those  beautiful  creatures  who  had 
perished  for  her  creed  two  thousand  years  ago.  If 
I  ever  were  influenced  by  a  high  and  noble  senti 
ment  it  was  at  that  moment. 

"  I  said,  *  I  have  loved  you  with  all  the  strength 
of  my  nature  from  the  first  moment  I  met  you  in 
the  Via  Condotti.' 

"  '  I  know  it/   whispered  this  loved  one. 

"'How  did  you  know  it,  dear  child?' 

"•I  don't  know.  I—  She  was  silently  weep 
ing. 

"  '('an  you  put  any  faith  in  me.  dear  Eleanor?  ' 

"•'Faith!  Indeed  I  can;  that  is,  I  suppose  so. 
I  ha-rdly  know  what  to  say.  I  am  —  I — think  — 
would  n't  we  better  go  home  now?'  said  Eleanor, 
in  a  sweet,  tremulous  tone,  while  a  little  tear  fell  at 
our  feet  on  that  same  soil  which  had  been  drenched 
so  manv  times  with  the  tears  and  blood  of  perse 
cuted  ( 'hristians. 

"Yes!  Certainly  we  will;  but  you  are  not  af 
fronted  with  me,  are  you,  for  saying  I  loved  you, 
Eleanor  ?  ' 

u  *  Affronted  !    I  low  could  I  ?    It  makes  me  happy 
—  so   happy  ;  but  you   see  I  'm  not  exactly  myself. 


80  A    FASHIONABLE   SUFFERER. 

You  won't  say  any  more  now,  Avill  you  ?  Wait  a 
few  days;  let  me  think  about  it,  whether  or  not, 
you  know,  that 's  a  good  fellow  ! ' 

"  '  No,  dear  child.    I  '11  do  nothing  to  trouble  you. 
Let  me  put  your  shawl  on  better.      It's  all  askew, 
—  there.    Is  n't  that  more  comfortable?  ' 

"  'Yes  ! '  thanks.     Come,  let's  go  ! ' 

"  '  Wait  one  moment,'  cried  I.  k  You  've  dropped 
your  handkerchief.  It  would  n't  do  to  leave  that, 
would  it  ?  " 

u  No,  indeed.  I  need  that.  It 's  so  cold,  you 
know.'  She  said  this  with  a  sweet,  teary  smile, 
scarcely  knowing  what  she  did.  She  looked  so 
like  a  young  goddess,  with  her  beatilied  counte 
nance,  her  bright  eye  and  her  trembling  lips,  that  I 
could  scarcely  restrain  myself  from  frantically  clasp 
ing  her  to  my  bosom. 

"We  arose,  however,  from  our  places  beside  the 
great  cross.  She  grasped  mv  arm  with  both  her 
little  cold  white  hands,  and  we  paced  across  the  an 
cient  amphitheatre  in  perfect  silence,  followed  by 
our  trusty  friend  the  black  dog,  and  so  passed  out 
beyond  its  portals  on  our  way  toward  the  city. 

"•  As  we  strode  along,  nought  was  heard  but  the 
heavy  footfalls  of  the  man,  mixed  with  the  light 
and  quicker  steps  of  his  companion.  Each  mind 
was  too  busy  to  articulate  its  cogitations,  yet  Elea 
nor  clung,  sometimes  almost  convulsively,  to  my 
arm,  while  my  own  knees  trembled  violently  all  the 
way. 


A    FASHIONABLE    SUFFERER.  87 

"•  How  I  reached  my  lodgings,  after  leaving  my 
companion  at  hers,  I  know  not.  The  whole;  expe 
rience  was  like  some  delightful  reverie,  which  took 
until  the  next  morning's  sun  came  shining  directly 
in  my  face  to  convince  me  that  I  was  actually  in 
the  ilesh  and  not  far  away  in  the  spirit. 

"•  After  such  a  transaction,  could  it  be  said  that 
there  was  'nothing  between  us? '  Two  hearts' se 
crets  had  been  laid  bare  before  k({od  and  this  com 
pany  '  of  invisible  spirits  in  that  ancient  theatre, 
which  could  never  be  retracted.  And  so  it  happened 
that  a  few  more  plain  words,  a  little  ring  from  off 
my  watch-chain  on  her  tiny  linger,  and  the  deed 
seemed  to  be  accomplished.  Eleanor  Donald  told 
me  that  she  loved  me,  and  we1  became,  if  not  actually, 
at  least  prospectively,  pledged  to  each  other  for  life. 

411  Existence  in  Rome,  during  the  solemn  ceremo 
nies  of  Holy  Week,  under  such  circumstances,  bo- 
came  clothed  with  stranger  and  more  serious  im 
portance. 

u  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Melville  suspected  what  they  offi 
cially  did  not  know,  and,  good  souls,  left  us  to  enjoy 
the  bright,  fleeting  moments  together.  So  it  was 
decreed  that  Eleanor  Donald  and  I  could  go  about 
the  Holy  City  like  two  young  birds. 

tw  There  is  no  affection  so  sure  and  solid  as  to  be 
beyond  the  reach  of  peradventurc.  It  is  that  very 
quality  of  apprehension  which  makes  a  youthful 
passion  full  of  surprises. 

"  Reciprocal  attachment  of  years'  standing  may 


88 


A   FASHIONABLE   SUFFKRKR. 


be  an  old  joke,  but  that  which  characterizes  newly 
discovered  reciprocity  is  quite  a  different  affair. 
Then  it  is  that  a  tear  is  a  mute  declaration  of  a 
life's  secret ;  a  sigh  contains  a  continent  of  bliss  ; 
a  pressure,  the  destiny  of  two  lives. 

"  There  was  a  delicate  reticence  in  the  nature  of 
Eleanor  Donald  which  repressed  any  marked  ex 


pression  of  happiness,  but  she  exhibited  her  fond 
ness  for  me  in  a  way  that  increased  botli  my  faith 
fulness  and  respect.  Parents  were  to  be  consulted. 
Time  was  to  bear  its  weight  upon  our  contract, 
("aim  judgment  was  to  sit  on  its  merits  ;  in  fact 
there  were  hosts  of  horrible  peradventures  which 
commenced  to  raise  their  ugly  forms  before  us  the 
very  moment  when  the  field  was  won.  '  Heaven 


A    FASHIONABLE    SUFFERER.  89 

will  decide.'  '  Have  faith  in  me  !'  were  the  cheery 
words  of  Eleanor  Donald,  as  we  parted  from  each 
other  on  the  eve  before  Palm  Sunday. 

"  1  shall  never  forget  Easter-week  in  Rome.  No  ! 
not  if  all  the  other  events  of  my  life  be  blotted  out, 
this  week  will  stand  in  my  memory  as  a  most  sa 
cred  epoch.  We  talked  but  little  of  our  mutual 
secret,  but  went  about  together,  to  and  from  St. 
Peter's,  delighted  observers  of  its  great  feasts. 

u  We  saw  the  Pope  distribute  the  palms  on  I 'aim 
Sunday.  We  were  part  of  the  great  crowd  within 
the  church  when  his  Holiness  was  borne  into  the 
cathedral  in  his  chair  of  state,  on  the  shoulders  of 
his  cardinals.  We  heard  the  flourish  of  the  silver 
trumpets.  We  witnessed  the  washing  of  the  pil 
grims'  feet,  and  saw  the  High  Pontiff  present  each 
one  with  a  bouquet  of  flowers  and  a  purse  of  money. 
Arm  in  arm  we  pressed  through  that  tremendous 
crowd  of  well-dressed  strangers,  up  the  stairway 
and  into  the  chamber  where  the  Pope  waited,  as  a 
servant,  upon  these  same  pilgrims,  in  imitation  of  the 
Saviour  at  the  Last  Supper.  Together  we  stood  in 
the  piazza,  San  Pietro,  among  the  mighty  throng 
collected  there,  and  bowed  our  heads  when  the  Pope 
blessed  the  populace  from  the  balcony:  and  finally, 
we  listened  with  bated  breath  to  the  solemn  k  Mis 
erere  "  within  the  dimly  lighted  hall  of  the  Sistine 
Chapel. 

•••  How  beautiful  she  appeared  among  the  bevy  of 
richly-dressed  women  which  filled  the  dais  within 


90  A    FASHIONABLE   SUFFERER. 

the  cathedral  on  those  holy  festivals  !  The  black 
veil  was  especially  becoming  to  her,  while  her  slen 
der  figure  was  easily  distinguished  from  among  the 
countesses  and  ambassadors'  wives,  by  its  graceful 
lines.  Before  breakfast  each  morning  the  church 
would  be  filled  with  these  beauties  from  every  land, 
\vhile,  according  to  regulation,  men  in  full  evening 
attire  wandered  about  the  immense  edifice  with 
opera-hat  and  white,  cravat.  A  curious  medley  ; 
but  so  unique,  so  idiosyncratic  ! 

"The  Melville  party  was  to  leave  Rome  on  the 
Tuesday  after  Easter,  for  (Jennany,  so  that  the 
evening  of  Easter  Monday  would  be  the  last  time  I 
should  see  them  until  we  met  in  Paris  in  the  ap 
proaching  autumn. 

"It  was  arranged  between  Eleanor  and  me  that, 
as  a  matter  of  mutual  trial,  there  should  be  but- 
little  correspondence,  and  that  all  things  should  be 
left  as  they  were  until  we  met  again.  I  acquiesced 
at  once  in  this  wise  request,  as  it  commended  itself 
both  to  my  judgment  and  my  desire  to  please1  her. 

"On  Easter  Monday  evening  the  grand  exhibi 
tion  of  the  illumination  of  St.  Peter's  was  witnessed 
by  all  of  us,  first  from  the  piazza  in  front  of  the 
cathedral,  and  then  again  from  the  summit  of  the 
Pincian  Hill,  where  in  the  starlight  the  mighty 
edifice,  Hashing  from  pediment  to  cross,  looked  like 
some  huge  ark  floating  upon  a  waste  of  waters. 

"  Ten  o'clock  came.  The  show  was  over.  The 
moment  arrived  for  our  party  to  break  up.  After 


A    FASHIONABLE    SUFFERER.  91 

bidding  both  the  Melvilles  a  warm  k  good-by,'  with 
a  solemn  promise  to  meet  at  the  '  Trois  Freres '  on 
the  fifth  of  the  next  September,  I  alighted  from  the 
carriage  and  went  round  to  the  .side  where  Eleanor 
Donald  was  seated.  I  took  her  soft  hand  in  both 
of  mine,  and  whispered,  "(Jood-by,  dearest  Elea 
nor  ;  we  meet  in  Paris  in  September."'  By  the  dim 
starlight  I  saw  her  pale  countenance  look  earnestly 
upon  me  for  an  instant,  and  then  bending  down  her 
little  face  for  me  to  kiss,  she  murmured,  'Have 
faith  in  me.  Heaven  will  take  care  of  both  of  us. 
God  bless  you  until  we  meet  again!' 

"I  entered  the  Via  Uipetta  on  foot,  while  the 
Melville  carriage  rolled  quickly  away  and  turned 
the  corner. 

"•  I  loitered  about  Rome  for  a  week  or  more  after 
the  rush  of  departing  strangers  was  over,  and  at 
last  took  up  my  own  line  of  march  for  the  north. 
From  Rome  I  went  by  diligence  to  Bologna,  and 
then  to  Venice.  The  moon  had  gone  away,  but  I 
did  n't  miss  it  half  so  much  as  I  did  the  '  casta 
diva  '  whom  I  had  lost.  So,  wrapped  in  my  French 
caban,  I  was  rowed  along  the  gloomy  lagunes,  un 
der  the  Rialto,  until  I  became  plunged  in  melan 
choly.  From  Venice  I  took  flight  to  Milan,  and 
by  the  last  of  May  started  over  the  St.  Ciothard 
Pass  to  Lucerne,  and  so  on  until  I  reached  gay 
Paris.  Here,  the  soldiers,  the  high-capped  bonnes, 
the  little  yrixettex^  and  the  orange-trees  were  as 
thick  as  butterflies  in  the  Tuileries1  gardens. 


92  A    FASHIONABLE    SUFFERER. 

u  The  Langworthys  were  in  Paris,  and  from  them 
I  heard  of  the  Melvilles.  They  were  passing  a 
month  in  Germany  in  company  with  some  friends 
from  England.  1  left  Paris  the  next  week,  and 
after  '  knocking  about '  the  Pyrenees  for  a  month, 
I  went  to  the  Tyrol  and  spent  another;  then  a 
week  or  so  at  St.  Moritz  in  the  Engadine.  I 
came  over  the  perpendicular  Gemini,  down  to 
Thiin  ;  then  k  kited'  quickly  along  so  as  to  reach 
Paris  again  by  September. 

k*  I  occupied  once  more  my  old  rooms  in  the  Rue 
Neuve  St.  Augustin,  and  found  that  Monsieur  l>er- 
ger,  the  concierge,  wore  the  same  queer  worsted 
cap,  and  kept  the  same  dirty  monkey  as  of  yore, 
while  his  court-yard  was  as  dismal  as  ever. 

"Dining  one  day  at  the  Cafe  Voisin,  I  saw  in 
the  '  Galignani '  the  arrival  of  the  Melvilles  at  the 
Hotel  Bristol.  There  they  were,  sure  enough. 
"Mr.  and  Mrs.  George  Melville  and  maid/  Miss 

O 

Donald  and  maid.' 

"  I  looked  at  this  announcement  long  and  anx 
iously.  Here  we  were  again  almost  face  to  face, 
but  with  this  lapse  of  six  months  between  us  !  Had 
this  interval  altered  our  relations  together?  I 
must  confess  that  simple  announcement  was  ktoo 
much  '  for  me,  and  it  was  a  moment  before  I  could 
command  myself  sufficiently  to  sip  my  claret  with 
out  spilling  it. 

"  "  Of  course  I  must  go  there,'  said  I  to  myself, 
'  this  very  night,  and  within  an  hour ! ' 


A    FASHIONABLE    SUFFF.RKR. 


93 


"How  human  vanity  always  steps  in  on  such  oc 
casions.  How  scrupulously  it  bids  one  deck  him 
self,  and  tie  his  cravat,  and  see  that  his  appearance 
is  entirely  comme  ilfaut! 

"  I  was  ushered  into  the  salon  of  the  Melvilles 
at  the  Hotel  Bristol,  and  greeted  by  them  both 


with  the  warmest  effusion.  Miss  Donald  arose 
from  her  seat,  where  she  was  sitting  with  a  young 
gentleman  whom  I  had  never  seen  before.  She 
shook  my  hand  very  pleasantly:  asked  me  howl 
had  passed  the  summer:  said  she  had  been  walk 
ing  over  the  Bernese  Oberland,  and  then  introduced 


94  A   FASHIONABLE    SUFFERER. 

me  to  her  companion,  to  whom  I  made  respectful 
obeisance.  After  this  we  sat  again,  and  the  Mel- 
villes  and  I  ran  rapidly  over  the  events  which  had 
transpired  since  we  all  were  in  Rome  together. 

u  Melville  told  me  that  they  were  now  a  party  of 
five:  himself  and  wife  and  Miss  Donald  with  Mr. 
and  Miss  Murgatroyd,  intimate  friends  from  Eng 
land,  who  were  to  be  with  them  until  their  return 
home. 

"  Miss  Donald  continued  talking  so  earnestly  with 
Mr.  Murgatroyd,  and  for  such  a  length  of  time, 
that  my  heart  commenced  beating  with  vague  fore 
bodings,  and  my  temples  to  throb  with  suspicious 
anxiety.  She  came  forward,  however,  soon  after, 
and  asked  me  how  I  was,  and  said  they  were  very 
glad  to  see  me  again.  My  voice  must  have  trembled 
at  her  apparent  composure'  and  forgetful  ness  of  our 
delicate  relations  to  each  other,  —  which  was  prob 
ably  betrayed  in  my  reply  to  her  inquiry,  —  for  she 
remarked  in  a  low  tone, — 

'"I  have  suffered  much  since  we  met.  This 
gentleman  is  a  very  -old  friend  of  ours,  and  you 

O  «/  * . 

must  know  I  have  settled  a  little  difference  which 
existed  between  us  for  a  long  time,  and  that  has 
made  me  very  happy.' 

k*l  told  her  that  I  rejoiced  that  she  had  done  so, 
for  I  did  n't  see  how  one  could  live  at  variance  with 
anybody  and  be  happy. 

^  k  No  ! '  said  she,  '  especially  if  he  is  a  very  dear 
friend ! ' 


A    FASHIONABLE    SUFFERER.  95 

"  '  Do  you  remain  long  in  Paris  ?  '  she  added. 

"  '  Long  ?  '  said  I !  '  Long  !  '  perfectly  astounded 
at  her  nonchalance.  '  I  really  can't  say ;  it  de 
pends  —  upon ' - 

"  My  voice  utterly  failed  me.  I  could  not  speak. 
I  looked  at  her  in  astonishment  —  almost  tearfully 
for  a  moment  —  and  she  met  my  eye  with  a  quiet, 
unsuspicious  gaze,  and  then  remarked,  — 

" '  You  must  be  sure  to  go  to  the  Ambassador's 
to-morroAV  night.  We  shall  all  be  there,  and  the 
music  will  be  delicious.' 

"•'I  shall  surely  be  there,'  said  I.  'But  have, 
you  forgotten  our  visit  at  Rome?' 

"  k  How  lovely  !     It  seems  a  hundred  years  ago  ! ' 

""And  the  Coliseum;  has  it  faded  from  mem 
ory  ?  ' 

""Oh,  horrible!  1  wouldn't  go  there  again  for 
worlds!  I  wonder  I  did  n't  catch  the  Iioman  fever! 

"  "  Have  your  feelings  changed  toward  me,  Elea 
nor  ? ' 

"  •  Since  when  ?  ' 

u  '  Since  then  ! ' 

"•'Iwas  an  awful  scare-cat  that  night.  I  acted 
like  a  child!' 

"'I  see  plainly,'  said  T,  'that  you  are  determined 
to  ignore  the  past.' 

"  "  You  know  what  Longfellow  says  :  u  Let  the 
dead  past  bury  its  dead."  Hut  be  sure  to  come  to 
the  Ambassador's  to-morrow.  Good-night! 

"•  I    went    back    to    my    lodgings,    perfectly   uii- 


96 


A   FASHIONABLE    SUFFERER. 


manned.  I  sat  by  the  open  window,  just  as  I  was, 
in  my  evening  dress,  for  hours  —  thinking  —  think 
ing.  1  was  pallid  with  sadness  ;  and  like  a  child, 
so  thoroughly  crushed,  so  terribly  cut  up. 

"•Said  I,  aloud,  kl  didn't  know  there  were  such 
women  in  the  world ;  so  angelic  to  look  upon,  so 
damnable  to  have  anything  to  do  with.' 


•"•The  cold,  gray  morning  found  me  still  in  ball 
costume  ;  but  with  the  new  day  a  stern  and  dif 
ferent  spirit  possessed  me.  '  Love  swells  like  the 
Solway,  but  ebbs  like  its  tide  ! '  I  quietly  arose 
and  went  to  my  chamber;  carefully  bathed  and 


A    FASHIONABLE    SUFFERER.  97 

dressed  myself,  and  went  through  the  daily  routine 
without  a  word  —  without  a  murmur. 

"  In  the  evening  I  arrayed  myself  scrupulously, 
and  made  it  a  point  to  go  to  the  Ambassador's. 
Eleanor  Donald  was  there,  looking  radiant  in  roses 
and  tulle.  It  made  no  impression  upon  me.  When 
the  music  'struck  up'  for  dancing.  I  approached 
her  —  almost  rudely — and  looking  straight  in  her 
eye,  said:  'You  must  dance  with  me  once  more, 
and  for  the  last  time  in  this  world  !  ' 

"She  gazed  at  me  almost  wildly.  The  color 
faded  from  her  cheeks,  while,  with  an  almost  agon- 
i/ed  expression,  she  faltered,  —  'Certainly,  if  YOU 
wish  it/ 

'"  We  stand  here,'  said  1.  I  led  her  through  the 
k  Lancers'  with  a  supercilious  smile  on  my  lip,  lint 
speechless.  1  escorted  her  hack,  frightened,  to  her 
seat  with  almost  exaggerated  courtesy. 

"She  commenced  to  say:  *  But  aren't  we  going 
to'-  But  I  cut  her  short  by,  "  We  are  going  to 
part  forever!  That's  what  we  are  going  to  do/ 
and  left  her. 

"  I  have  had  the  ill-luck  to  meet  her  twice  since 
thiit  baleful  night:  but  I  recognized  her  no  more 
than  I  would  a  stock  or  a  stone.  She  was  un 
worthy  the  name  of  woman  :  for,  curse  her,  didn't 
she  nearly  break  my  heart?" 

Cynicus  Douce  stopped  reading  the  MS$. 

"  Good  heavens  !  "  cried   the    Xervous    Exhaus- 
7 


98  A   FASHIONABLE   SUFFERER. 

tionist  from  out  the  new  hammock,  "is  it  fin 
ished  ?  " 

"  That 's  the  whole  of  it,"  replied  Mr.  Douce. 

The  company  was  lost  in  thought.  The  lady 
with  a  history  wiped  her  eyes.  Mrs.  George  Madi 
son  Taggatt  looked  vacantly  over  the  hills:  she 
was  thinking  of  her  treatment  of  the  poor  man 
who  was  engaged  to  her  when  she  threw  him  over 
for  the  wealthy  Taggart.  The  others  kept  silent. 

"  Whoever  this  creature  was,"  said  the  sym 
pathizing  Amelia,  "he  had  a  pretty  hard  time  of 
it." 

"Eleanor  Donald  couldn't  have  been  a  true 
woman,"  sighed  Consuelo,  the  Countess;  "  no  true 
woman  would  ever  have  treated  a  man  like  that." 

"  What  is  a  true  woman?'  asked  Cynicus, 
blandly. 

"  \Vhy,  a  true  woman  is  one  who  never" 

"  Flirts  ?  "  suggested  Cynicus. 

"  Not  exactly  flirts,  but  one  who  never  tells  a 
man  she  loves  him,  and  then  "  — 

"  What  !     Never  ?  "  interpolated  Mr.  Douce. 

"  No  !  never  tells  a  man  she  loves  him  and  then 
deliberately  marries  another  ;  she  never  does.  Does 
she,  girls  ?  " 

"  No,  of  course  she  never  does.  Whoever  heard 
of  such  a  thing?  "  cried  all  the  unmarried  girls. 

"All  ladies  on  this  lawn,"  said  Mr.  Lawrence, 
"  who  have  once  acknowledged  their  love  for  one 
man,  and  then  have  not  afterwards  left  him  in  the 


A   FASHIONABLE    SUFFERER. 


99 


lurch  for  another  lover,  will  please  hold  up  their 
hands.'' 

They  were  all  just  about  to  raise  them,  when 
Benjamin's  great  tea-bell  providentially  rang  on 
the  long  piazza,  and  the  fascinating  bevy  of  true 
women  marched  in  to  supper.  The  sweet  little 
Hildegarde  was  quite  interested  in  the  story,  and 
staying  behind,  asked  Cynicus  if  that  was  really 
the  whole  of  the  MSS.  Mr.  Douce  said  there  was 
one  chapter  more,  which  seemed  to  be  an  experi 
ence  in  Switzerland;  and  he  promised  to  read  it  to 
the  ladies  some  •'•  off  "  afternoon. 


CHAPTER   II. 


SUNDAY    MORNING     IN     PARADISE,     WITH    A     SERMON     WHICH 
DID  NOT    SUIT    ITS    INHABITANTS. 

IT   was    not    a  1  w  ays 
Sunday   in  Paradise. 
There  were  six  days 
during  which   the  va 
ried    secular    amuse 
ments  had  full  swing ; 
but    when    the     first 
day    of     each    week 
did  arrive,  the  inhab 
itants  of  Paradise  wel 
comed  it  with  becom 
ing     respect.      They 
donned  their  starchi 
est   habiliments.     They    adjusted 
their  countenances  to  the  correct 
angle,  and  they  marched  down  the 
south  road  as  decorously  as  good 
Christians  ought  to  do. 

There  is  something  very  char 
acteristic    in  the   way  Sunday  is 
observed  in  New  England.     The 
Puritanical  flavor  of  the  last  century,  that  pious 


A  FASHIONABLE  SUFFERER.          101 

grimness  which  made  religion  a  business  as  well  as 
a  duty,  has  worn  itself  sufficiently  away  to  leave 
at  the  present  day  only  a  suspicion  of  its  former 
presence.  This  suspicion,  however,  still  permeates 
the  social  fabric,  and  lends  to  it  an  impressive  ele 
ment  of  distinctness  not  to  be  found  elsewhere. 
Little  boys  and  big  ones  feel  as  if  on  that  day 
their  best  clothes  and  their  best  manners  were  to 
be  aired,  so  whenever  the  sturdy  yeomanry  of 
New  England  "  dress  up  "  they  look  unusually  sol 
emn  and  unusually  uncomfortable.  Now  this  is 
all  well  enough  if  the  change  of  demeanor  and 
change  of  dress  would  not  stop  here,  but  would  just 
go  on,  altering  bad  habits  and  making  over  bad 
hearts  into  good  ones.  But  observation  leads  us  to 
remark  that  Sunday,  of  all  the  days  in  the  week,  is 
the  one  when  if  anybody  is  cross,  that  body  is  cross 
cut  then ;  arid  if  there  are  misunderstandings,  it  is 
on  Sunday  morning  just  before  one  goes  to  church. 
In  Paradise,  however,  that  lovely  spot,  these  frag 
mentary  disputes  were  almost  unknown,  and  the 
morning  of  the  first  day  was  generally  the  most 
peaceful  portion  of  the  week.  The  city  clothes 
and  the  white  laces,  the  nodding  plumes  and  the 
silver-clasped  prayer-books  of  the  guests, •blended 
lovingly  together  with  the  more  modest  attire  of 
the  villagers  ;  and  both  bodies  of  Christians  trotted 
amicably  along  the  brown  roads  together,  making 
a  beautiful  picture.  All  of  our  Paradisiacal  friends 
were  very  good  people  :  they  thought  highly  of 


102  A    FASHIONABLE    SUFFERER. 

their  church,  and  held  well-defined  views  on  all  re 
ligious  matters  ;  but  some  of  them  were  unable  to 
attend  church.  The  Beautiful  N.  E.,  for  instance, 
\vas  prevented  by  her  nervous  exhaustion  from  go 
ing  there  regularly.  Besides  the  necessity  of  quiet 
ing  her  nerves,  there  were  many  other  little  things 
to  lie  done  before  she  was  ready  to  start  ;  so  that 
church  time  was  come  and  often  gone  before  she 
had  put  on  her  gloves,  or  even  her  right  boot. 
Then  the  hour  was  much  too  early  for  invalids  such 
as  she.  The  seats  were  far  too  hard  :  and,  worst 
of  all,  she  was  regularly  seized  every  Sunday  morn 
ing  with  an  undefined  horror  of  entering  a  crowded 
building.  She  feared  that  so  soon  as  she  should 
reach  her  crimson-cushioned  pew,  away  down  the 
broad  aisle,  she  would  certainly  faint,  and  have  to 
be  carried  out  over  the  heads  of  the  whole  congre 
gation,  by  all  the  men,  particularly  by  that  tall 
fright  of  a  creature  who  sat  just  across  from  her 
pew,  in  number  112,  and  looked  at  her  so  imper 
tinently  whenever  she  did  go  to  the  sanctuary. 
Therefore,  the  mere  mention  of  church  made  the 
Beautiful  N.  K.  sea-sick.  All  these  misfortunes, 
however,  did  not  alter  "  her  views  "  on  church  mat 
ters,  which  were  very  pronounced.  But  our  good 
friend,  Mr.  Cynicus  Douce,  was  in  his  place  every 
Sunday  as  regularly  as  a  clock.  In  the  city,  he  sat 
in  the  same  seat  where  his  father  and  his  ucrandfa- 

O 

ther  (the  gentleman  who  fought  in  the  great  Revo 
lution)  had  sat  before  him,  so  that  he  did  not  thank 


A  FASHIONABLE  SUFFERER.          103 

anybody  who  presumed  to  offer  him  advice  on  or 
dinary  religious  questions.  Mr.  Douce  was  sensi 
ble  withal.  lie  knew  that  ministers  were  mortals, 
even  it'  they  were  pious,  and  that  they  required 
quite  as  much  to  eat  and  drink  as  other  Christians 
did,  if  not  more.  He  quarreled  with  those  people 
who,  having  lit'teen  or  twentv  thousand  a  year  to 
spend  on  themselves,  speak  of  poor  parsons  with  a 
lean  wife  and  eight  hungry  children  living  on  a 
thousand  a  year  and  house-rent  to  pay  besides,  as 
being  in  ••  comfortable  circumstances,"  and  needing 
no  "  outside  help." 

lie  sympathized  with  them,  even  when  he  ob 
jected  to  some  of  their  narrow  views  and  their  oc 
casional  uniitness  for  their  vocation.  Mr.  Douce 
had  a  singular  creed,  which  consisted,  among  other 
things,  in  this  :  that  nobodv  should  be  allowed  to 
preach  the  gospel  to  sinners  but  those  who  kne\v, 
from  their  own  bitter  experience,  what  sin  actually 
was:  who  had  been  buffeted  and  tossed  about  by 
the  temptations  of  modern  civilization  :  who  had 
been  caught  in  the  golden  snare  of  worldliness.  and 
who  by  all  this  experience  had  become  convinced 
that  the  inevitable  end  of  it  all  was  misery  and 
ashes.  lie  did  not  believe  in  allowing  inexperi 
enced  and  harmless  young  men.  who  had  been  tied 
to  their  mothers"  apron-strings  until  they  went  to 
the  seminary,  who  had  never  known  what  a  terri 
ble  thing  to  withstand  temptation  was.  and  what 
herculean  effort  was  required  to  beat  back  the 


104          A  FASHIONABLE  SUFFERER. 

devil  when  he  appeared  as  an  ''angel  of  light ;  "  he 
did  not  approve  of  such  young  gentlemen,  though 
decked  in  all  the  smartness  of  sacerdotal  habili 
ment,  delivering  a  mellifluous  discourse  from  some 
unintelligible  text  of  St.  Paul's,  to  hoary-headed 
but  well-dressed  sinners  ranged  in  the  pews  before 
them.  And  this  simply  because  he  believed  it  did 
no  good,  but  possibly  some  harm. 

He  reserved  these  unpractical  ideas  to  impart  to 
his  dear  friend  Lady  Angela,  who  listened  to  him 
in  an  amused  sort  of  way,  as  if  she  half  believed 
what  he  said. 

This  sweet  woman  was  always  apologizing  for 
everybody's  short-comings,  and  was  shocked  when 
anything  was  spoken  derogatory  to  the  church  or 
its  belongings.  Trained  in  the  old-fashioned  meth 
ods  which  accepted  as  facts  everything  descended 
from  the  Fathers,  she  was  slow  to  examine  too  criti 
cally  these  unchallenged  truths.  But  Lady  Angela 
was  a  very  sensible  woman  ;  indeed  her  good  sense 
overcame  her  emotions,  so  that  it  was  difficult  to 
deceive  her  by  anything  inherently  a  sham.  And 
although  truthful  to  a  fault,  if  such  a  tiling  be  pos 
sible,  yet  (like  the  rest  of  her  sex)  she  longed  to 
have  some  unimpeachable  authority  in  religious 
matters  to  lean  upon  ;  but  when  anything  was  act 
ually  absurd,  nobody  saw  it  quicker,  and  nobody 
condemned  it  sooner  than  Lady  Angela.  Mr.  Cyn- 
icus  Douce,  therefore,  had  a  listener  who,  while  she 
did  not  easily  accept  all  of  his  (as  she  termed  them) 


A  FASHIONABLE  SUFFERER.          105 

"  wild  theories,"'  yet  was  keen  and  clear-headed 
enough  to  perceive  at  once  when  he  chanced  upon 
a  kernel  of  truth.  Their  discussions  were  often  of 
a  very  lively  character,  and  the  welfare  of  the  little 
parish  of  Paradise  came  in  for  a  goodly  share  of 
attention. 

There  was  one  lady  in  the  small  community  who 
took  even  more  interest  than  either   Ladv  Angela 

t  O 

or  Mr.  Douce  did  in  its  spiritual  welfare.  She  was 
possessed  of  good  mental  capacity,  but,  if  the  truth 
were  told,  was  somewhat  narrow  in  k- her  views "'  on 
church  matters.  This  lady  was  no  other  than  Miss 
Eunice  Smart,  a  Church-woman  from  her  birth. 
She  was  like  all  good  people  who  think  on  one  sub 
ject  incessantly.  It,  becomes  at  last  the  great  ob 
ject  of  their  life.  This  object  to  Miss  Smart  was 
"The  Church.''  She  held  the  no  uncommon  belief 
that  the  whole  truth  about  sacred  matters  was  dis 
covered,  like  a  nugget  of  gold,  in  the  Middle  Ages. 
She  believed  that  every  specimen  of  the  Christian 
Father  was  an  exemplary  Christian  ;  that  he  never 
wrangled  with  his  brothers,  was  never  selfish  nor 
bigoted,  but  lived  a  pure  and  virtuous  life.  She 
held  also  that,  gathered  together  in  fraternal  coun 
cil,  these  amiable  and  immilitant  men  had  discov 
ered  what  was  best  (in  the  way  of  dogma  and 
creed)  for  the  guidance  of  the  Church  for  all  ages 
to  come.  Moreover.  Miss  Smart,  applying  these 
views  to  the  modern  Church  establishment,  nar 
rowed  her  ideas  down  to  one  creed,  one  branch, 


100         A  FASHIONABLE  SUFFERER. 

one  sect  of  that  branch,  one  seminary  of  that  sect, 
and  finally  to  one  priest  of  that  seminary.  On  all 
other  subjects  she  was  very  funny,  very  clever,  and 
very  good  company,  and  her  conversation,  there 
fore,  was  always  crisp  and  original. 

As  might  be  inferred,  with  all  these  different  ele 
ments  in  the  community,  it  became  a  somewhat  dif 
ficult  task  to  decide  upon  an  acceptable  incumbent 
for  the  little  parish  of  Paradise. 

The  Beautiful  X.  E.,the  Lady  Angela,  Mr.  Douce, 
and  Miss  Smart  were  only  types  of  the  many  forms 
of  opinion  which  would  certainly  be  called  upon 
to  decide  this  delicate  question. 

The  summer  had  proved  a  very  hot  and  dusty 
one  in  Paradise,  and  the  usually  damp  and  brown 
roads  were  now  merely  heaps  of  white  dust  which 
every  passing  carriage  sent  whirling  into  the  air. 
Like  the  dust,  so  this  question  was  sure  to  be  raised 
whenever  a  passing  remark  from  any  casual  ob 
server  suggested  the  discussion. 

Such  was  the  condition  of  things  when  it  was 
understood  that  a  Sunday  morning  service  would  be 
held  in  the  new  edifice,  which  had  at  last  reached 
completion,  and  that  a  possible  incumbent  of  the 
little  parish  was  to  preach  to  them  on  that  occa 
sion. 

This  dainty  memorial  chapel  in  Paradise,  with 
its  rough  rubble  walls,  its  high-pitched  roof,  its 
tinted  windows,  and  its  brick  trimmings,  was  most 
picturesque. 


A  FASHIONABLE  SUFFERER. 


107 


As  one  approached  it  from  the  south  road,  or  even 
coming  in  the  opposite  direction,  its  appearance, 
nestled  among  the  tall  pines,  was  very  prepossess 
ing.  It  produced  just  that  quieting,  grave,  and 
loving  impression  which  one  desires  to  feel  creep 
ing  over  him  as  he  enters  the  portals  of  a  country 


church.  The  robins  and  the  orioles  were  twitter 
ing  among  the  dense  foliage  -which  surrounded  the 
sacred  edifice,  while  a  peaceful  Sunday  stillness 
spread  itself  over  the  green,  undulating  fields  in  its 
vicinity.  The  pews  in  the  little  chapel  were  pleas 
ant  to  sit  in.  They  had  just  the  right  bevel  for 
both  ease  and  reverence,  which  is  a  good  recom- 


108         A  FASHIONABLE  SUFFERER. 

mendation  for  any  church.  The  several  articles  of 
a  memorial  character,  which  kind  hands  and  lov 
ing  hearts  had  added,  were  exceedingly  appropriate, 
while  the  chancel  appointments  bore  the  mark  of 
an  educated,  ecclesiological  taste.  Nothing  was 
wanting  but  the  minister.  Who  shall  he  be  ?  With 
what  stripe  of  churchmanship  shall  he  be  identi 
fied?  The  high,  the  low,  the  broad,  the  ritualistic, 
the  high  and  dry  ( 'onnecticut,  or  the  low  and  liberal 
evangelical?  —  vital  questions  to  the  Paradise  we 
are  speaking  of,  however  unimportant  they  may  be 
to  that  other  and  better  one.  As  was  very  natural, 
there  was  some  excitement  among  the  members  of 
the  little  parish  on  this  subject. 

The  Rev.  Mr.  (-owl  was  first  invited  to  preach, 
blithe  was  found  much  too  "high"  for  Paradise. 
Some  of  the  parishioners  were  horrified,  and  said 
"he  did  every  thing,  "whatever  that  expression  might 
mean.  Then  the  Rev.  George  Fenner  ascended  the 
pulpit,  but  he  was  just  as  much  too  "low"  as  Mr. 
Cowl  was  too  "  high."  I  Ie  did  not  lay  stress  enough 
on  the  authority  of  the  Church  to  please  Paradise. 
Then  came  Father  Emerson,  who  was  one  of  the 
order  of  the  missionary  brothers.  His  acre  at  hobbv 

*.  r?  «. 

was  preaching  the  gospel  in  foreign  parts.  "  Paro 
chial  missions,  and  diocesan  missions,  and  domestic 
missions,  were  all  well  enough,"  said  Father  Emer 
son,  "but  in  order  to  evangelize  the  world  we  must 
begin  with  Christianizing  the  Chinese,  and  then 
"  work  this  way."  Home  fields  would  fall  into 


A  FASHIONABLE  SUFFERER.          109 

line  the  instant  that  foreign  lands  had  been  plowed 
over."  Paradise,  being  a  '"home  field,"  had  no  use 
for  the  Rev.  Father  Emerson.  After  him,  a  little 
Mr.  Holly,  from  East  Ipswich,  came  to  the  village. 
He  was  invited  to  preach,  but  could  not  be  pre 
vailed  upon  to  wear  the  surplice  at  sermon  time, 
insisting  on  putting  on  the  old  black  scholastic 
gown,  long  discarded,  and  much  too  voluminous  for 
his  short  stature.  This  so  displeased  Miss  Eunice 
Smart  that  she  walked  straight  out  of  the  new 
church  in  face  of  the  whole  congregation. 

Ail  experience  like  this  was  trying,  since  it  was 
very  necessary  for  the  welfare  of  Paradise  that 
a  clergyman  should  be  selected,  not  only  accep 
table  to  the  members  of  the  parish  itself,  but  also 
to  the  large  crowd  of  strangers  who  frequented 
the  village  during  the  summer  months. 

At  last  a  lady  from  New  York  city  suggested 
the  name  of  the  Hev.  Ambrose  St.  Julieii  as  a  most 
suitable  person,  she  thought,  for  the  position.  "  St. 
Julien,"  she  said,  ''was  just  graduated  from  the 
seminary.  He  was  young  and  unmarried,  two  good 
recommendations,  which  always  interest  the  old, 
and,  she  might  add,  the  young  as  well.  Besides, 
the  reverend  gentleman's  churchmanship  lay  mid 
way  between  the  two  extremes :  not  so  high  as 
to  be  displeasing  to  Captain  Americus  Topdressing, 
the  richest  farmer  in  Paradise,  nor  so  low  as  to 
interfere  seriously  with  the  religious  convictions 
of  Miss  Eunice  Smart.  She  advised  the  committee 


110 


A    FASHIONABLE   SUFFERER. 


to  invite  him  to  fill  the  pulpit  the  next  Sunday, 
which  would  be  the  eighth  after  Trinity.  So  the 
Kev.  Ambrose  St.  Julien, 
having  just  entered  the  di- 
aconate,  was  summoned  to 
Paradise  as  the  guest  of  the 
New  York  lady  on  the  hill 
top. 

The  Lady  Angela,  who  had 
for  many  years  interested 
herself  in  the  welfare  of  the 
little  parish,  played  the  new 
organ,  while  Miss  Lucy  sang 
soprano,  and  Cousin  Edith 
took  the  alto  part  of  the 
church  music,  every  Sunday. 
These  obliging  volunteers 
were  always  rummaging  the 
different  hymnals  for  the 
most  appropriate  hymns  for 

each  service,  and  had  selected  the  liHIth  and  the 
2<)2d  as  the  proper  ones  for  this  particular  occa 
sion. 

The  morning  was  auspicious.  White  cumulus 
clouds  floated  lazily  over  the  zenith  propelled  by 
gentle  zephyrs.  The  buzz  of  the  crickets  was 
heard  in  the  fields.  The  yellow  butterflies  fluttered 
uncertainly  before  one's  pathway,  while  a  shim 
mering  haze  in  the  valleys  proclaimed  a  warm  day. 
The  south  road  \vas  alive  with  scores  of  gayly 


A  FASHIONABLE  SUFFERER.          Ill 

dressed  people  in    flaring   huts,  and    fresh-looking 

costumes.  There  were  children  with  starched 
frocks  and  dainty  prayer-books  ;  mild-eyed  lassies 
with  immaculate  gloves  and  fluffy  jabots ;  and 
jaunty  cavaliers,  with  all  the  smart  extravagances 
of  neckerchief  and  stocking  which  characterize  the 
toilet  of  the  modern  Adonis.  One  of  the  prettiest 
sights  in  the  world  is  such  a  youthful  company,  zig 
zagging  in  delightful  disorder  down  a  country  road 
of  a  Sunday  morning.  A  large  delegation  from 
the  "hill"  —  a  precious  load — trotted  by  in  Ben 
jamin's  big  wagon,  while  Claude  and  Cynthia,  Cu 
pid  and  Psyche,  Apollo  and  Diana,  with  heads  down 
and  parasols  up.  lagged  in  stately  parallels  across 
the  road  in  the  rear. 

The  gay-colored  crowd  vanished,  one  after 
another,  over  the  threshold  of  the  new  stone 
chapel,  suggesting  to  the  mind  the  sparks  which, 
as  children,  we  used  to  watch  "go  out"  one  after 
another  on  the  nursery  hearth.  It  always  takes  a 
certain  number  of  twistings  and  turnings  before 
any  congregation  is  fairly  settled.  If  one  man 
happens  to  cough  over  on  the  east  side  of  the 
church,  two  or  three  others  must  need  take  advan 
tage  of  this  fracture  of  silence  to  "ka-hem"  and 
sneeze  over  on  the  west.  There  are  always  two 
or  three  late  comers,  too,  who  make  a  great  flurry 
getting  into  the  front  pews.  The  two  strange  boys, 
who  have  "  no  business  ''  there,  must  first  be  routed 
out,  and  then  the  stout  lady  tries  to  file  past  the 


112 


A   FASHIONABLE   SUFFERER. 


thin  lady,  who  is  undecided  whether  to  go  out  or 
in,  and  thereupon  follows  the  usual  teetering,  which 
the  congregation  watches  in  mournful  silence. 

Every  lady  is  fanning  herself  ;  every  man  is  wip 
ing  his  brow ;  every  boy  is  looking  over  the  back 
of  the  pew.  Dear,  near-sighted  Lady  Angela,  with 


her  eyes  'way  down  to  the  keys,  is  performing  one 
of  her  most  approved  "voluntaries"  on  the  new 
organ.  The  last  note  is  hushed.  The  Rev.  Am 
brose  St.  Julien  enters  from  the  robing-rooin  and 
kneels  at  the  new  chancel-rail. 

lie  is  a  tidy-looking  young  gentleman,  in  white 
cravat,  and  new  black  sacerdotalish  garments, 
appropriate  enough  to  his  position  as  one  of  the 
"•  inferior  clergy."  Twenty-two  is  about  his  age. 
Devout  and  hungry  eyes  look  upon  the  congrega 
tion,  while  a  large,  ascetic,  and  celibate  mouth 
shows  great  capacity  for  suffering.  To  an  impar 
tial  observer  —  not  the  New  York  lady  —  he  ap 
pears  to  be  an  inexperienced,  callow,  but  devout 


A  FASHIONABLE  SUFFERER.          118 

young  man,  bent  upon  what  lie  calls  his  "  mission 
in  life,''  an  enthusiastic  individual  who  has  wt  convic 
tions  "  collated  from  the  writings  of  some  eminent 
mediaeval  authority  whom  he  has  taken  as  his  pat 
tern.  From  this  fountain  he  has  derived  his  creed, 
which  teaches  him,  among  other  things,  that  the 
instant  he  "took  orders"  he  mounted  a  pedestal 
separate  and  apart  from  all  lower  sinners  ;  that 
from  this  elevation  he  became  suddenly  invested 
with  a  knowledge  of  matters  of  which,  to  be  sure, 
he  knows  nothing  by  experience,  but  which  he  be 
lieves  has  miraculously  descended  upon  him  through 
the  two  hands  of  his  diocesan.  lie  read  the  ser 
vice  in  a  voice  which,  if  he  had  used  after  church, 
he  would  have  been  hurried  off  to  an  insane  retreat. 
He  jumbled  the  words  all  up  together  as  if  they 
were  Latin  or  some  other  foreign  tongue,  and  if  he 
laid  emphasis  upon  anything,  it  was  the  conjunc 
tions  and  the  articles. 

He  mounted  the  pulpit  at  last,  and  gave  out  his 
text  in  a  scholastic  undertone  :  — 

"A ucl   seeing  the   multitude  he  went  up  into  a  mountain."  — 
MATT.  v.  1. 

u  I  wish  to  speak  to  you,  my  friends,  for  a  brief 
space  this  morning,  on  the  exclusiveness  of  the 
founder  of  the  Christian  faith.  The  religion  ex 
pounded  by  the  Son  of  Mary  is  not  exactly  what 
the  popular  idea,  prevalent  nowadays,  makes  it- 
out  to  be.  It  is  a*  priceless  treasure,  not  a  common 
boon.  It  is  beyond  the  price  of  rubies,  and  can 
's 


114         A  FASHIONABLE  SUFFERER. 

not  be  purchased  with  money.  We  must  infer, 
therefore,  that  only  a  privileged  few  of  the  earth's 
inhabitants  will  be  able  to  enjoy  its  inestimable 
benefits,  and  become  the  happy  owners  of  this  im 
mortal  inheritance.  Nowhere  throughout  the  New 
Testament  is  it  shown  that  the  author  of  Chris 
tianity  was  a  person  who  ever  mixed  with  the  com 
mon  people  as  a  companion. 

"As  a  rabbi  or  teacher,  he  was  accounted  one  of 
an  exclusive  sect  among  the  Jews.  It  is  true  that 
he  walked  about  the  streets  of  Jerusalem  and  Ju- 
dea,  but  he  walked  unattended,  except  by  a  chosen 
few  of  his  disciples.  The  rabble  were  afraid  of 
him.  They  looked  askance  at  him,  as  one  separate 
and  apart  from  their  own  rank  in  life. 

"We  must  remember  that  he  was  no  ordinary 
citizen,  but  the  'Prince  of  Peace;1  and  his  murder 
ers  called  him  *  the  King  of  the  Jews.'  So  when 
interpreting  the  New  Testament  we  need  to  keep 
constantly  in  our  minds  that  this  wonderful  teacher 
was  set  apart,  even  by  his  countrymen,  as  above 
and  beyond  all  his  fellows.  Hedged  about  by  that 
divine  right  of  kingship,  he  naturally  kept  himself 
exclusive.  As  a  consequence  of  all  this  exclusive- 
ness  his  religion  is  an  exclusive  religion.  When  we 
read  that,  among  his  other  attributes,  he  came  into 
the  world  as  the  sinner's  friend,  it  will  not  do  to 
make  the  interpretation  too  large.  These  texts 
should  properly  read,  '  He  was  friend  of  such  sin 
ners  as  should  be  saved,'  and  '  he  came  into  the 


A  FASHIONABLE  SUFFERER.          115 

world  to  befriend  repentant  sinners  of  the  Church.' 
This  version  would  bring  it  down  to  about  the  limit 
allowed  by  the  most  conservative  church-writers  of 
the  present  day.  All  people  cannot  expect  to  par 
take  of  such  inestimable  benefits,  but  only  such 
good  churchmen  as  are  predestinated,  elected,  and 
preordained  by  the  eternal  fiat  of  Omnipotence. 
In  support  of  this  view  let  me  quote  some  unmis 
takable  texts  bearing  on  this  point :  — 

'•  In  the  twentieth  chapter  of  Matthew  and  part  of 
the  sixteenth  verse,  we  read,  'For  many  be  called, 
but  few  chosen  ; '  that  is,  the  '  elected  '  few  are  the 
only  ones  to  enter.  The  rest  must  bear  the  result 
of  their  own  misfortune. 

"Again,  in  Acts  i.  verse  47,  'And  the  Lord 
added  to  the  church  daily  such  as. should  be  saved.' 
The  word  "such'  in  the  Greek,  freely  translated, 
clearly  means  to  limit  the  number  to  a  chosen  few, 
an  exclusive  few. 

"  Again,  we  have  another  instance  of  this  ex- 
clusiveness  in  the  incident  of  the  raising  of  the 
daughter  of  Jairus,  where  it  is  said  that,  '  When 
the  people  were  put  forth  he  went  in,'  etc. 

"And  finally.  —  for  I  could  go  on  multiplying 
the  instances  which  go  to  prove  my  proposition,— 
finally,  I  adduce  this  extract  from  Matthew  xiii.  ^, 
•  And  great  multitudes  were  gathered  together  unto 
him,  so  that  he  went  into  a  ship  and  sat.'  This 
forcibly  indicates  his  desire  to  get  away  from  the 
multitude.  He  went  into  a  ship  and  sat  apart, 


116         A  FASHIONABLE  SUFFERER. 

while  the  multitude  probably  stood,  as  before  their 
superior,  on  the  shore.  And  then  lastly,  the  text 
we  have  chosen,  '  And  seeing  the  multitude  he  went 
up  into  a  mountain.'  Now  it  may  be  asked  —  and 
it  is  a  pretty  important  question  —  who  are  these 
elected  few,  this  exclusive  company  of  prophets  and 
martyrs  ?  Clearly  not  many  of  the  ot  TroAAot,  even 
though  this  TTo/XAoi  were  a  repentant  TroAXot,  unless 
peradventure  they  happened  to  be  of  those  elected 
few, — those  worthy  ones  who  are  found  doing  his 
will  in  his  holy  Church.  His  holy  Church  !  That 
Church  which  he  ordained,  and  which  has  come 
down  to  us  unbroken,  through  much  tribulation  and 
blood;  through  evil  report  and  good  report,  from 
the  Petrine  foundation  of  the  Christian  era. 

"It  will  not  do  to  ling  to  one's  self  the  idea  that 
because  an  individual  has  attached  himself  to  some 
of  those  irresponsible  bodies  —  those  so-called  ( 'hris- 
tians,  those  numerous  sects  in  the  world,  governed 
by  conferences,  councils,  or  other  secular  modes  — 
that  thereby  he  is  within  the  pale  of  the  Christian 
Church,  as  we  understand  this  Christian  Church  to 
be, — because  this  hallucination  wrill  lead  him  into 
fatal  error.  Those  and  those  only  are  members  of 
his  Church  who  belong  to  hfs  elect.  They  are  those 
who  conform  to  the  rites  and  ceremonies,  the  his 
toric  dogmas,  and  the  most  accepted  creeds,  which 
have  come  down  to  us  in  regular  gradation  from 
the  blessed  Peter  himself ;  or  have  been  promul 
gated  by  the  Church  from  time  to  time,  through 


A  FASHIONABLE  SUFFERER.          117 

her  authorized  channels.  They  are  those  who 
take,  unquestioned,  what  the  Church  holds  to  be 
pure  doctrine,  —  if  they  can  discover  what  that  is, 
—  and  who  accept  its  assertions  without  cavil,  and 
obey  its  commands  without  reserve.  I  pity  all 
those  cavilers,  agnostics,  and  free-thinkers  who  dare 
to  judge  for  themselves  of  such  matters,  and  who 
are  bold  enough  to  say  that  many  of  our  inesti 
mable  rites  and  usages,  which  have  descended  to  us 
from  the  blessed  mediaeval  era,  are  false  inferences 
of  sinful  men  from  what  the  great  Teacher  himself 
inculcated.  I  weep  for  those  erring  sons  who  per 
sist  in  saying  that  the  Great  Christian  Exemplar 
never  expounded  a  creed,  established  a  dogma,  nor 
drew  up  a  liturgy  during  his  ministry,  and  that 
he  only  went  about  healing  the  sick,  casting  out 
devils,  and  begging  everybody  to  love  his  neigh 
bor  as  himself :  leaving  the  wrangling  about  dogma 
to  weak-minded  and  vacillating  churchmen:  and, 
moreover,  I  defy  these  degenerate  sons  of  the 
Church  who  flippantly  say  that  all  our  precious 
and  increasingly  gorgeous  ritual,  our  elaborate  and 
symbolic  ceremonies,  are  not  at  all  in  accordance 
with  the  simple  teachings  of  the  Great  Master 
himself,  but  only  the  outcroppings  of  pharisaical 
diets  and  vainglorious  councils.  As  good  church 
men  let  us  dismiss  from  our  minds  all  such  mis 
chievous  assertions  as  unworthy  of  serious  consid 
eration.  If  the  sacred  truth  concerning  these  mat 
ters  was  not  discoverable  by  those  blessed  saints 


118         A  FASHIONABLE  SUFFERER. 

and  broad-minded  martyrs  who  lived  at  an  age 
when  men  gave  up  their  whole  lives  to  their  sacred 
work  of  reading  and  flagellating,  surely  in  this  gen 
eration,  which  is  so  much  farther  removed  from  the 
date  of  the  Christian  era,  and  at  a  time  when  men's 
minds  are  warped  by  what  is  popularly  called  '  the 
right  of  private  judgment,'  —  it  is  twice  the  harder 
task  to  reach  the  meaning  of  those  eternal  verities. 
It  is  worthy  to  note,  that  faith  in  our  holy  Church 
must  come  in  to  sustain  us  just  here.  This  faith 
must  be  greater  than  a  mustard-seed  to  avail  any 
thing.  Surely  the  authority  of  a  church,  episcopal 
in  its  government,  and  which  can  be  traced  at  least 
as  far  back  as  the  second  century,  if  not  farther,— 
and  what  do  a  hundred  years,  more  or  less,  mat 
ter  in  so  vast  an  inquiry, — surely  such  authority 
should  have  a  weight  in  our  minds  so  strong  as  to 
silence  forever  all  such  assaults  of  agnostic  infi 
delity  as  have  been  referred  to. 

'•  By  this  authority  then,  we  say,  that  an  episcopal 
form  of  church  government  is  the  only  true  vehicle 
of  Christian  doctrine ;  that  it  and  it  alone  is  author 
ized  to  speak  from  time  to  time  to  the  world ;  that 
this  government  is  a  conservative  and  an  exclusive 
government,  and  that  this  authority  is  above  '  prin 
cipalities,  and  powers,  and  things  present,  and  things 
to  come.'  We  have  then  but  to  hear  her  teachings 
as  explained  and  expounded  by  her  anointed  priests 
to  obey  them.  When  we  contemplate  the  hundreds 
of  millions  of  the  earth's  inhabitants,  comparatively 


A  FASHIONABLE  SUFFERER.          119 

a  small  number  will  be  brought  under  the  saving 
influence  of  the  Church  ;  in  other  words,  be  found 
numbered  among  the  elect ;  but  then  this  very  fact 
agrees  perfectly  with  the  idea  which  we  enunci 
ated  at  the  commencement  of  this  discourse,  —  the 
blessed  exclusiveness  of  our  particular  faith.  We 
read  neither  in  the  Old  nor  the  Xew  Testament 
that  these  chosen  few,  these  elect,  will  be  other  than 
that  preordained  and  surpliced  company  which  clus 
ter  about  the  eternal  a?gis  of  episcopal  authority 
inside  the  chanceL-rail.  Safe  within  this  exclusive 
barrier,  they  will  be  kept  aloof  from  the  surging 
tide  of  conglomerate  sinners,  who  vainly  cling  to 
their  straws  of  safety  on  the  outside,  and  will  met 
aphorically,  and  in  their  own  poor  way,  try  to  copy 
their  great  prototype,  who,  4  seeing  a  multitude, 
went  up  into  a  mountain.' 

'•  There  is  thus  much  to  cheer  those  who  rejoice 
in  the  conservatism  of  our  hereditary  Church.  We 
know  that  we  in  the  Church  are  safe,  whatever 
may  happen  to  those  deluded  souls  on  the  outside. 
AVc  can  only  say  to  such,  that  we  have  pointed  out 
to  them  their  folly  ;  we  have  directed  them  to  the 
most  unquestioned  and  approved  channels  of  sal 
vation  ;  we  have  marked  the  proper  collects  and 
prayers  made  and  provided  for  just  such  cases. 
We  can  do  no  more.  Nothing  remains  but  the  de 
nunciation  of  the  prophet:  '  Ephraim  is  joined  to 
idols:  let  him  alone!'  lint  let  us,  the  chosen 
few,  continue  on  in  our  blessed  work.  Be  sober; 


120         A  FASHIONABLE  SUFFERER. 

be  diligent ;  be  exclusive.  Tell  people  outside  the 
Church  they  are  lost.  Teach  our  children  the  ru 
brics  and  the  symbolic  significance  of  the  Christian 
year.  Leave  the  door  of  the  Church  just  open 
enough  to  facilitate  the  idea  of  Christian  union. 

O 

The  Church  will  do  everything  for  this  consum 
mation  of  its  hopes  which  is  consistent  with  its  an 
cient  conservatism ;  but  if  Jews,  Turks,  noncon 
formists,  and  infidels  willfully  refuse  to  enter,  it  is 
their  own  fault  and  not  ours :  we  cannot  go  out  to 
meet  them.  They  have  the  Prayer-book  and  the 
hymnal.  k  Let  them  hear  them  !  '  '  And  seeing  a 
multitude,  he  went  up  into  a  mountain.'  Amen !  " 

The  congregation  slowly  separated. 

u  WelV  said  Lawrence  to  Lady  Angela,  "  what 
do  you  think  of  the  Rev.  Ambrose  St.  Julien  ?  " 

Lady  A.  "•  I  think  he  preaches  what  he  thinks 
he  believes." 

Lawrence.  "•  T  think  what  he  preaches  is  the 
most  consummate  bosh  I  ever  heard.  Look  at  the 
absurdity  of  the  application  of  his  text ;  then  the 
perfect  non-sequitur  of  the  whole  of  it.  He  must 
be  an  idiot." 

"  No,"  answered  Lady  Angela,  "  a  man  with  one 
idea  tortures  everything,  even  texts  from  Scrip 
ture,  into  a  meaning  which  shall  conform  to  his 
hobby." 

"  Why,"  said  Lawrence,  laughing  immoderately, 
"  hear  him  coolly  telling  us  that  the  Saviour,  see- 


A  FASHIONABLE  SUFFERER.          121 

ing  the  multitude  about  him,  went  up  into  a  moun 
tain  in  order  to  get  away  from  the  vulgar  herd  ! 
He  might  as  well  have  said  that  when  Moses  was 
ordered  to  '  speak  unto  the  children  of  Israel  that 
they  go  forward,'  that  before  that  time  the  whole 
nation  was  actually  walking  backwards.'' 

Mr.  Douce  remarked,  "There  is  one,  good  thing 
about  him  :  he  said,  in  so  many  words,  what  I  have 
heard  lots  of  parsons  infer,  but  did  n't  dare  speak 
out." 

"  Yes,"  replied  Lawrence,  ktthis  word  w  inference  ' 
has  caused  a  deal  of  mischief  in  the  world;  es 
pecially  in  religious  matters.  People  are  all  the 
time  inferring  that  what  the  Scripture  says  in  so 
many  words  it  does  n't  mean  ;  that  the  real  signif 
ication,  in  the  original  (ireek,  is  exactly  opposite 
from  what  it  is  translated  in  our  version :  and, 
therefore,  what  it  seems  to  sav,  it  does  n't  say  at 
all/' 

"  I  want  to  cry,"  said  Cynicus. 

"  Why  ?  "  said  Lady  Angela. 

Oi/n.  "  Because  this  little  parson  is  so  narrow. 
I  pity  him  from  the  bottom  of  my  heart ;  for  he  is 
looking  through  the  large  end  of  the  telescope,  and 
don't  know  it.  What  an  idea  he  has  of  the  Chris 
tian  religion,  to  be  sure." 

Lawrence.  u  You  're  right,  Douce.  Such  a  crea 
ture  would  roast  his  own  grandmother  alive,  if  she 
didn't  subscribe  to  some  particular  rubric  on  some 
particular  page  of  the  revised  canons.  What  we 


122         A  FASHIONABLE  SUFFERER. 

want  in  the  Church  is  a  little  more  ordinary  com 
mon  sense." 

Cyn.  "  What  we  want  out  of  the  Church  is  just 
this  narrow  sort  of  doctrine." 

"  I  want  to  cry  once  more,"  continued  Cynicus. 

Lawrence.  "-What!     Again?" 

Cyn.  "  Yes  :  because  as  we  don't  believe  in  a 
Pope,  we  can't  prevent  this  'Ambrose'  from 
mounting  the  pulpit.  Hut  in  the  church  k  over  the 
way,'  a  son  who  did  her  no  good  would  soon  be 
shipped  oft'  to  the  Hottentots.  He  could  n't  hurt 
the  Hottentots,  while  he  might  create  a  considera 
ble  rumpus  in  the  church." 

k<>  Now  you  men  are  always  so  hard  upon  clergy 
men,"  exclaimed  tolerant  Lady  Angela.  ''  Al 
though  you  know  I  heartily  condemn  such  narrow 
doctrine,  I  can't  blame  the  man  from  preaching 
what  certainly  is  a  legitimate  conclusion  from  the 
premise  he  lays  down.  Do  be  generous.  He  seems 
to  be  an  earnest,  albeit  a  harmless  creature." 

"  Nobody  honors  the  cloth  more  than  I  do,  and 
nobody  has  more  friends  in  the  profession,"  replied 
Lawrence.  "•  But  this  sermon  only  shows  how  many 
sides  there  are  to  the  same  subject.  Looking  at 
the  sky  from  the  bottom  of  a  well,  one  would  obtain 
a  poor  idea  of  its  immensity." 

Cyn.  "  St.  Ambrose;  seems  to  be  in  the  deepest 
kind  of  a  well,  then,  to  judge  from  the  idea  he 
gets  of  the  heavens  above  him." 

u  Ah,  poor  boy,"  added  Mr.  Douce,  "  if  his  nar- 


A  FASHIONABLE  SUFFERER.          123 

rowness  were  food,  he  'd  die  before  morning  of 
hunger." 

"  He  'd  never  do  for  Paradise,"  remarked  Amelia. 

"  Never  !  "  answered  Lady  Angela.  "  Neither 
Cousin  Edith  nor  Amie  would  approve  of  it." 

"  I  could  preach  better  than  that  myself,  "  said 
Cynicus,  "  if  they  would  allow  a  k  fellow  '  to  go  up 
there  without  •  taking  orders.'  " 

"1  have  no  doubt  of  that,"  laughingly  replied 
Lady  Angela,  "for  you  arc  so  mighty  independent 
that  you  wouldn't  take;  orders  from  anybody  in 
this  world." 

"  Unless  from  you,  my  lady,"  added  Mr.  Douce. 

Miss  Eunice  Smart  here  joined  the  group,  and 
began  by  saying,  "  Everything  that  young  man 
said  this  morning  was  what  might  be  termed  "  offi 
cially  "  true  ;  but  the  trouble  was,  lie  lacked  judg 
ment,  lie  ought  to  have  kept  silent  on  some  of 
those  points.  It  is  just  as  well,"  said  she,  "not  to 
tell  everything  you  believe  all  at  once." 

"  Let  it  out  gradually,  you  mean,  perhaps,"  re 
marked  Mi-.  Douce. 

"  Well,  I  mean,  keep  your  own  opinions  to  your 
self,  and  preach  about  what  everybody  would  agree 
to  ;  it 's  much  better." 

'•  But  Miss  Eunice,"  answered  Mr.  Douce,  ''this 
gentleman's  whole  doctrine  is  so  narrow  that  he 
would  drive  everybody  away  from  the  Church." 

"No  matter  for  that,"  replied  Miss  Smart,  "the 
doctrine  taught  at  Iota  Seminary  is  pretty  nearly 


124 


A    FASHIONABLE   SUFFERER. 


what  this  young  gentleman  gave  us  to-day  ;  but  I 
never  saw  a  graduate  from  lota  who  did  n't  know 
when  to  '  shut  up.'  ' 

"  But  do  you  believe  in  his  doctrine,  Miss 
Eunice  ?  " 

"  I  believe,  that  carried  to  its  logical  conclusion, 
—  which  I  don't  think  it  ever  need  be,  —  but  car 
ried  to  its  logical  conclusion,  one  branch  of  the 
Church  would  'bring  up '  about  where  he  'came 
out '  tli  is  morning." 

"  But  will  you  vote  to  call  him  to  Paradise  ?  " 

"•  Before  I  actually  voted  on  the  subject,"  an 
swered  Miss  Smart,  cautiously,  "  I  would  like  to 
have  an  understanding  with  him  on  the  "  filio-que  ' 
question,  and  also  on  several  minor  points  in  the 
Revised  Canons." 


CHAPTER   III. 

A    MELON-PARTY     ON    "  TOP-KNOT,"    AND     THE      DISAGRKEABLK 
THINGS    WHICH    WERE    SAII>    THERE. 

DIFFERENT  seasons  of  the  year  produce  different 
sensations  :  new  life  in  spring,  indolence  in  sum 
mer,  accumulated  strength  in  autumn,  and  sturdy 
resistance  in  winter.  This  changing  experience  is 
what  toughens  the  fibre  of  northern  races.  It  is 
one  of  the,  many  reasons  why  each  season  has  its 
lovers. 

In  "  Paradise  "  the  month  of  September  is  para 
dise  indeed.  This  is  the  hazy  month,  and  the 
dreamy  month,  and  the  fruity  month.  It  is  the  ar 
tists'  month,  and  the  tourists1  month,  and  the  inva 
lids'  month.  Hearts  are  as  bio-  as  melons  then; 
minds  are  as  fruitful  as  apple-trees.  The  evenings 
are  so  cool  ;  the  shadows  are  so  long  :  the  shawls 
are  so  comfortable ;  the  drives  are  so  invigorating  ; 


126  A    FASHIONABLE    SUFFERER. 

the  roads  are  so  brown,  and  what  "  he  says  "  is  so 
lovely.  The  grapes  have  all  been  picked ;  the  frogs 
have  formed  themselves  into  solemn  choruses  ;  the 
screeching  tree-toads  are  splitting  their  throats, 
while  all  nature  is  thanking  God  as  loud  as  ever  it 
can  for  the  yellow  harvests. 

It  was  a  great  privilege  to  take  one  of  Mr. 
Worthington's  easy-chairs  and  place  it  on  the  little 
platform  outside  the  hut  on  "  Top-Knot"  Hill  of  a 
September  afternoon.  The  view  before  one,  which 
goes  rapidly  downward  and  outward  over  the 
placid  landscape  for  twenty  or  thirty  miles,  has  a 
most  quieting  influence  upon  the  beholder.  The 
blue  horizon  in  the  misty  distance  looks  like  the 
ocean  ;  while  the  little  lake  at  the  left,  the  red- 
roofed  railroad  station  at  the  right,  the  white 
spire  of  the  distant  village,  and  even  the  serpen 
tine  road,  as  it  goes  winding  up  the  long  incline 
towards  Jericho,  complete  a  picture  of  quiet  con 
tent. 

There  are  all  sorts  of  men  in  the  world  :  some 
are  men  of  taste  who  love  art  and  nature,  and 
women  (who  by  the  way  combine  them  both). 
There  are  others  also  whose  prominent  character 
istics  are  good  sense  and  gentle  manners.  These 
valuable  citizens  have  a  genial  way  of  doing  polite 
things  ;  they  do  not  expect  you  to  thank  them 
more  than  one  "  good  once,"  if  they  have  done  you 
a  favor  ;  they  differ  from  certain  other  brethren 
who,  if  they  happen  to  loan  you  a  handkerchief  to 


A   FASHIONABLE   SUFFERER.  127 

supply  the  place  of  your  own  unfortunately  left  at 
home,  are  looking  out  all  through  life  afterwards  to 
see  whether  you  are  sufficiently  grateful  to  them 
for  this  favor. 

Mr.  Worthington  was  not  one  of  this  sort.  In 
July  he  gave  strawberry-parties  to  the  children  ;  in 
September,  among  other  courtesies,  he  regaled  his 
older  friends  on  "•  Top-Knot  melons  ;  "  and  it  was 
a  great  honor  to  be  an  invited  guest  on  such  occa 
sions. 

There  is  an  aroma  about  a  cantaloupe  melon 
which,  heaven  be  praised,  no  chemist  can  imitate  ; 
and  when  that  melon  is  icy  cold,  and  perfectly  ripe, 
whether  one  eats  it  with  pepper  and  salt,  with  sugar, 
or  with  no  condiment  at  all,  he  may  be  sure  that 
he  is  partaking  of  something  more  delicious  than 
Jupiter  Olympus,  with  all  his  naughty  luxurious- 
ness,  ever  dreamed  of. 

One  hazy  afternoon  in  September,  Mr.  Worth 
ington  gave  a  melon  party  to  some  of  his  friends  in 
Paradise. 

This  gentleman's  guests  looked  like  a  moving 
mass  of  gay-colored  exotics  as  they  sauntered  up 
the  steep  incline  of  "  Top-Knot.'" 

The  host  had  fetched  from  the  hut  all  his  skins, 
rugs,  and  easy-chairs,  and  placed  them  at  conven 
ient  spots  over  the  grassy  plateau,  which  were  soon 
monopolized  by  an  appreciative  company. 

Old  "  Lily-pad,"  the  setter,  lay  at  full  length  in 
the  cool  shadow,  and  there  was  nothing  wanting  to 


128 


A   FASHIONABLE   SUFFERER: 


make  the  party  homogeneous.  His  friends  did 
what  all  friends  do  when  they  come  together  — 
they  talked. 

"  How  about  the  new  parson  ?  "  said  Cynicus 
Douce. 

"  They  have  n't  got  one  ?  "  inquired  the  inter 
ested  Amelia. 

"  1  believe  nothing  has  actually  been  caught  yet. 


I  wanted  to  hear  if  there  was  any  bite?"  said 
Lawrence. 

tk  Paradise  won't  be  satisfied  with  any  sort  of 
fish  :  she  must  have  her  pick  of  the  assortment," 
spoke  up  Miss  Brown,  with  a,  toss  of  the  head. 

"No  'small  fry'  for  her,  I  trow,"  suggested  Miss 
Jones. 

"  You  are  right,  my  dear,"  said  Lady  Angela. 
"  Paradise  needs  a  respectable,  broad-minded  gen 
tleman  ;  a  good  churchman,  with  an  intelligent 


A  FASHIONABLE  SUFFKRKR.          129 

wife,  who  can  live  on  a  very  small  salary  and  yet 
appear  as  contented  as  if  he  had  all  the  luxuries  of 
the  season/' 

"  Yes,"  rejoined  Mr.  Douce  ;  ••  but  he  must  be 
unmarried." 

'•  That  will  never  do,"  suggested  Lawrence,  "  for 
he  would  be  torn  to  pieces  by  his  spinster  parish 
ioners." 

"1  don't  fear  that  at  all."  replied  Lady  Angela. 
"  But  a  married  and  experienced  man  would  be 
more  proper  and  respectable  for  such  an  old  parish 
as  Paradise  ;  besides  "  — 

"  Now  you  will  make  a  great  mistake,"  inter 
rupted  Cynicus,  k"  if  you  don't  select  a  gentleman 
entirely  free  from  any  uxorial  entanglements." 

"It  can't  be,"  said  Cousin  Edith.  "Amie  and  I 
would  not  feel  willing  to  make  such  a  dangerous 
unmarried  experiment." 

'"Why!"  continued  Mr.  Douce.  "It  is  undeni 
able  that  celibacy  increases  the  popularity  of  a  pop 
ular  preacher." 

"  I  don't  agree  with  you,"  said  Lady  Angela. 

"How  can  you  say  so?"  replied  Mr.  Douce. 
"Of  two  parsons  with  equal  attractions  of  mind 
and  manners,  the  unmarried  one  would  be  sure  to 
•carry  the  day'  in  the  long  run." 

"  Well,  I  don't  see  whvhe  should,"  sighed  Cousin 
Edith. 

'•  Because,"  continued  Mr.  Douce,  "the  genus 
clergyman  has  ever  been  a  subject  of  transcendent 


130         A  FASHIONABLE  SUFFKRER. 

interest  to  the  vast  majority  of  women.  They  some 
how  feel  as  if  he  were  composed  of  different  ingre 
dients  from  ordinary  men.  There  is  something  so 
mysterious  to  them  in  the  connection  between 
wicked  man  and  that  which  is  pious  and  good, 
that  he  piques  their  curiosity.'' 

"  That  may  be  the  case  witli  some  women,  but 
it  is  not  so  with  me,"  said  Miss  Brown.  "A  cler 
gyman  to  me  is  only  an  ordinary  man  hitched  to  a 
prayer-book." 

"Still,  I  sometimes  think,"  interrupted  Amelia, 
"that  we  girls  J<>  consider  ministers  to  be  so  blessed 
by  heaven  that  they  have  no  such  feelings  as  other 
masculines  have.  The  trouble  is  to  know  where 
so  many  bad  traits  go  to  so  suddenly,  and  so  many 
good  ones  come  from,  to  occupy  the  vacancies." 

••I  can't  believe,  however,  '  added  Miss  .Jones, 
"that  even  clergymen  are  entirely  free  from  all  the 
temptations  of  the  w..  the  f..  and  the  d." 

"To  look  at  their  placid  faces  and  sweet  expres 
sions,  no  one  would  suspect  they  ever  had  any," 
murmured  the  pretty  girl  just  from  school. 

"  I  rather  think,"  said  mine  host  in  his  kindliest 
manner,  "that  if  the  truth  were  told,  a  young,  un 
married,  and  decent-looking  clergyman  has  more 
young  ladies  in  love  with  him  than  any  other  man 
in  his  parish.  I  don't  think  enough  allowance  is 
made  for  his  sore  temptations  on  the  one  hand,  and 
his  self-control  on  the  other.  I  both  envy  and  pity 
him." 


A  FASHIONABLE  SUFFERER.          131 

"  You  need  ii't  pity  him"  answered  Cynicus 
Douce.  "  It  is  the  young  ladies  of  his  parish  who 
need  your  pity." 

"  They  need  my  pity  ?  " 

"  Yes  ;  for,  as  I  said  before,  they  have  the  crudest 
and  jnost  extraordinary  notions  of  a  young  minis 
ter.  They  seem  to  think  that  it  is  not  possible  for 
so  religious  a  mortal  ever  to  have  any  feeling1  of 
jealousy,  hatred,  or  malice  in  his  heart,  like  other 
sinners  ;  that  he  never  falls  in  love,  unless  accord 
ing  to  the  true  biblical  and  patriarchal  method  ; 
that  he  writes  his  love-letters  from  a  sense  of  duty 
and  a  concordance ;  says  grace  every  time  he  visits 
his  lady-love,  and  'offers  himself  by  quotations 
from  the  sacred  writers/' 

Miss  Brown  laughed  heartily  at  this  nonsense, 
and  exclaimed:  "Only  think  of  him  reading  the 
'  Commandments  '  every  time  he  saluted  \\\$  fiancee  ! 
No,  Mr.  Douce,  a  parson  is  something  more  than 
a  walking  collect  with  a  white  cravat,  and  some 
thing  less  than  a  saint  perched  on  a  blue  rain 
bow." 

"  So  he  is  to  me,"  answered  Mr.  Douce.  '•  I  was 
merely  describing  how  an  unmarried  clergyman 
sometimes  impresses  the  average  young  lady  of  his 
parish  ;  and  viewing  the  question  in  this  light,  these 
gentlemen  are  placed  in  an  entirely  false  position, 
for  the  circumstances  of  their  office  naturally  make 
them  the  cynosure  of  all  eyes,  and  thus  help  to 
place  them  in  this  unique  yet  popular  situation. 


132  A   FASHIONABLE    SUFFERER. 

It  inclines  mo  to  believe  the  truth  of  that  wicked 
saying,  that  there  are  three  sexes  in  the  world  — 
men,  women,  and  ministers." 

••  I  don't  know  about  the  sex  question,"  said  Law 
rence,  laughing1,  "but  I  do  believe  there  are  only 
two  sorts  of  ministers,  as  there  are  only  two  sorts 
of  women  in  the  world:  those  that  are  worth  every 
thing  and  those,  that  are  worth" 

"Friends!"  interrupted  Mr.  Worthington,  "our 
melons  and  peaches  are  awaiting  our  pleasure,  — 
let  us  go  into  the  hut  and  'discuss'  them  at  our 
leisure." 

The  fruit  was  delicious.  Each  succeeding  melon 
was  cooler  and  more  aromatic  than  the  preceding- 
one  ;  while  peaches  and  cream,  plum-cake,  and  a 
mysterious  "something"  else,  peculiarly  indigenous 
to  "Top-Knot,"  completed  the  unique  menu  of  the 
occasion. 

AY  hen  the  cigars  were  brought  in  or  rather  "out" 
and  lighted,  the  company  moved  once  more  to  the 
green  plateau,  and  from  its  airv  height  viewed  the 
swiftly  declining  sun  as  he  marched  toward  his  bed 
of  clouds. 

Some  of  the  party  had  but  lately  arrived  from 
abroad,  and  conversation  turned  upon  the  changes 
which  almost  always  occur  during  a  long  absence. 

'•  That 's  the  trouble  with  these  protracted  inter 
vals,"  said  Mr.  Douce.  "I  always  feel  sad  when 
my  friends  are  'packing  up'  for  'the  grand  tour,' 
because  I  know  that  when  '  Eddy '  has  grown  up, 


A    FASHIONABLE    SUFFERER.  133 

and  '  Sadie  '  lias  acquired  Sanscrit,  while  '  Maria V 
projecting  teeth  have  been  made  perpendicular, 
and  her  winking  stopped,  —  'the  old  folks  at  home' 
have  all  this  time  been  sickening1  and  dying,  and 
losing  their  minds,  k  Josiah'  has  been  married,  'El 
len  '  engaged,  the  old  horse  has  been  killed,  and 
'  Tommy  Traddles  '  has  gone  to  Texas."' 

"  That 's  the  worst  of  it,"  said  Miss  Brown  ;  "  in 
this  age  of  telephone  and  phonograph,  it  hardly 
pays  to  shut  one's  eyes  for  fear  that  something  won 
derful  will  take  place  between  the  winks." 

"Oh,  dear!''  said  Amelia.  "That  is  very  true. 
People  who  are  anxious  for  traveling  forget  that 
the  tilings  of  this  world  are  so  nicely  adjusted  that 
one  set  cannot  be  jostled  without  disturbing  all  the 
rest." 

"  We  are  all  like  rows  of  bricks,"  answered  Mr. 
Douce;  "the  tilting  of  one  row  tottles  over  the 
whole  file  directly  in  front  of  it." 

"And  our  friendships  go  in  the  same  way,"  said 
Miss  Smith  ;  "like  modern  mortar,  there  is  no  stick 
to  them." 

"  What  is  that  long  procession  coming  up  the 
hill'''"  cried  out  Amie.  "There  seems  to  be  one 
man  with  a  chair  on  his  head,  another  with  a 
feather-bed;  and  then  comes  a  *  buckboard  '  piled 
up  with  things,  and  somebody  walking  behind  with 
a  sun-umbrella.  It  is  n't  a  funeral,  is  it?" 

Of  course  everybody  sprang  up  to  see  the  won 
derful  spectacle.  Almost  immediately,  however, 


134         A  FASHIONABLE  SUFFERER. 

there  was  a  great  shout  of  laughter  as  the  company 
discovered  their  delightful  friend  and  sufferer,  the 
Beautiful  N.  E.,  who  was  slowly  approaching  the 
feast  at  so  late  an  hour. 

"  Run.  away  and  help  her  !  "  exclaimed  Lady  An 
gela,  whereupon  there  was  a  general  scamper  to  the 
ambulance. 


Tlie  hospital  cavalcade  was  composed  of  curious 
impedimenta.  Thomas,  the.  quiet  man-servant,  had 
on  his  head  a  certain  particular  chair  belonging  to 
his  mistress,  which  just  fitted  the  "  right  spot '  of 
his  mistress's  back.  Parker,  the  maid,  carried  under 
one  arm  a  large  pillow  of  eider-down,  marked  with 
a  beautiful  monogram  *"  X.  E."  encircled  by  what 
appeared  to  be  a  necklace  of  quinine  pills  ;  while  in 
the  other  she  held  over  (lie  head  of  the  sufferer  a 
silken  piirasol  of  delicate  lea-rose  color.  It  was 
"pinked"  and  "  panfaleted  "  three  rows  dee}),  with 
an  ivory  handle  of  an  unearthly  tin-t. 

The  X.  E.  herself,  poor  child,  lay  on  the  "buck- 
board  "  at  an  angle  of  forty-five  degrees,  and  was 
bolstered  up  on  three  large  cushions,  an  elegant 


A  FASHIONABLE  SUFFERER.          135 

lap-robe,  and  little  footstool.  She  wore  a  gown  of 
exactly  the  same  shade  as  her  parasol.  It  was  cut 
d  la  princesse,  with  a  jabot  of  delicate  lace  and  rib- 
boii  down  the  front,  with  a  train  of  the  same  ma 
terial.  A  cluster  of  "  .Jacqueminots  "  (just  received 
from  a  friend  in  New  York)  completed  the  ele 
gance  and  simplicity  of  her  toilet.  Her  lisle- 
tliread,  clocked  stockings  were  of  the  same  delicate 
hue.  and  of  Balbriggan  manufacture. 

The  pure  country  air  had  already  done  wonders 
for  her.  The  color  of  her  cheeks  eclipsed  that  of 
the  rest  of  her  attire,  and,  like  any  other  masterly 
production,  the  eye  was  made  to  rest  upon  the 
strongest  point,  to  which  all  other  points  were  mere 
accessories.  Her  brownish,  childish,  wavy  hair  lay 
in  undulating  heaps  over  her  brow;  and  as  she 
alighted  from  the  low  buckboard,  and  sank  into  her 
eider-down  dais,  she  resembled  a  beautiful  rose-bud 
just  fainting  a  little  for  want  of  water. 

A  score  of  sympathizing  'friends  were  quickly 
about  her  with  peaches  and  cream,  an  eighth  of  a 
freshly  cut  melon,  and  quite  a  large  slice  of  wedding- 
cake,  to  appease  the  cravings  of  exhausted  nerves. 
With  a  graceful  sweep  of  the  hand,  however,  she 
stopped  them  by  saying.  "  I  never  eat  before  I 
take  my  quinine.  Won't  you  kindly  get  the  pill 
box  from  Thomas  ?  " 

The  X.  H.'s  diction  was  superb.  When  she  said 
k*  Won't  you,"  she  didn't  say  "  woon-chew,"  as 
so  many  of  us  do,  but  pronounced  each  word  sepa- 


136         A  FASHIONABLE  SUFFERER. 

rately.  The  "won't"  had  a  "t"  on  it,  and  the 
"  you  "  had  a  "  u."  It  was  pleasant  to  hear  her 
converse. 

''-  You  see  before  you,"  said  Mr.  Wortliington, 
grandiloquently,  looking  at  the  declining  sun,  "•  the 
great  cosmopolite  of  the  world,  lie  is  at  home  in 
all  countries  ;  has  no  prejudices  ;  shines  on  the  evil 
and  the  good,  and  goes  straight  to  his  couch  re 
gretted  by  an  hemisphere." 

"•  There  is  nothing  mean  about  the  sun,"  replied 
Mr.  Lawrence,  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  departing 
luminary.  "If  everybody  would  copy  him,  and 
mind  his  own  business,  we  should  all  be  the  hap 
pier  !  "t 

"•  It  is  this  interference  which  makes  ns  all  hate 
each  other,"  said  Mr.  Douce.  "It  is  surprising 
to  find  so  many  disagreeable  people  in  the  world 
whose  prominent  fault  is  not  minding  their  own 
business." 

"  Why,  Cynicus,"  exclaimed  Miss  Brown,  with 
a  laugh,  "  you  "re  a  miserable  old  pessimist,  1  'm 
afraid !  "• 

u  You  "re  right,  my  friend,"  answered  Cynicus  ; 
"everything  you  say  convinces  me  of  it.  Hut  have 
you  never  remarked  how  many  disagreeable  people 
there  are  ?  " 

"We  can't  help  seeing- some,  of  course1,"  replied 
Lady  Angela,  looking  at  him  with  a  quizzical  ex 
pression.  "  Hut  why  not  notice  the  agreeable  ones, 
too?  I  don't  meet  many  disagreeable  people. 


A  FASHIONABLE  SUFFERER.          137 

Everybody  seem  to  have  something  to  recommend 
them  —  even  pessimists.'' 

"  It  may  be  dyspepsia,"  said  Mr.  Douce,  u  but  it 
seems  to  me  that  agreeable  people  are  only  conspic 
uous  by  their  rarity.  Let  me  tell  you  what  Hab- 
bertoii  and  I  used  to  do  when  we  were  in  college : 
We  would  start  from  the  Campus  and  walk  to  the 
City  Hall  and  back,  and  count  the  number  of  dis 
agreeable  people  encountered  on  the  way.  One 
day  we  'bagged'  thirty-nine:  and,  as  '  poor  Arte- 
111118"  would  say,  •  it  wasn't  a  very  good  day  for 
them,  either.'  Now  thirty-nine  in  two  miles  is  not 
so  bad." 

"What  constitutes  a  disagreeable  person?"  in 
quired  Miss  Brown,  fearing  she  might  be  one. 

"There  are  twenty  or  thirty  kinds,"  replied  the 
pessimist.  "'  Some  have  eternal  smirks  on  their 
faces  :  some  are  always  saying  disagreeable  things  ; 
some  take  your  politeness  to  them  for  servility,  and 
accordingly  treat  you  with  contempt ;  some  pretend 
not  to  see  you  in  the  street  when  they  do  see  you  ; 
some  are  forever  •  harping "  on  small  matters,  and 
quarreling  about  it;  some  are  always  remarking 
upon  what  YOU  <>wjl\t  to  have  done  :  some  talk  about 
you  behind  your  back,  and  pretend  they  don't  : 
some  damn  you  with  faint  praise." 

"Heavens!"  exclaimed  Amelia,  "you've  told  us 
enough  ;  and  if  you  don't  stop  we  '11  put  you  in  the 
category  yourself." 

"I  have  if  t  half  got  through,  but  I  '11  just  go  on 


138 


A    FASHIONABLE    SUFFERER. 


to  say,  that  all  these  disagreeable  people  were  con 
fined  in  an  invisible  pen,  and  the  most  disagreeable 
one  of  all  we  used  to  choose  to  '  keep  the  door ; ' 
we  found  that  we  changed  this  keeper  almost  every 
day." 

The  company  laughed  merrily  at  this,  and  said 
that  Mr.  Douce  was  not  half  so  bad  as  he  pre 
tended  to  be. 

u  Maybe  not,"  said  Douce.  "  I  really  don't  think 
I  am  quite  such  a  wretch  as  you  will  probably  say 
the  individual  is  who  wrote  this  piece  which  1  cut 
from  the  last  issue  of  k  The  Home  Circle.' ' 

"  Let 's  hear  it."  "  Read  it  up,"  said  many 
voices. 

"It  is  so  rich,"  said  Mr.  Douce;  "and  such  a 
lie,  that  it  becomes  almost 
ludicrous." 

"What  is  the  name  of  the 
article?" 

"•  The  views  of  Archibald 
Bald,  after  fifteen  years'  ex 
perience  in  our  best  society 
—  ten  of  them  as  a  married 
man,  and  the  other  five  as  a 
nondescript." 

Air.  Douce  commenced  to 
read  the  article  :  — 

"It  sounds  a  little  start 
ling  to  say  tli at  there  are  some  human  natures,  in 
what  is  called  k  fashionable  society,'  devoid  of  the 


A    FASHIONABLE    SUFFERER.  189 

sentiment  of  natural  affection;  but  every  dav 
teaches  us  that  this  world  is  a  conglomerate  of 
many  ingredients,  and  it  is  no  longer  wonderful 
that  specimens  of  such  characters  are  found. 
These  individuals  are  confirmed  egoists.  They 
possess  no  active  principle  of  love  for  their  fellow- 
creatures.  They  are  votaries  of  ambition  and  self- 
interest.  They  delight  in  the  results  of  their  cun 
ning  manipulation  of  society.  Luckily  for  them, 
want  of  heart  is  seldom  coupled  with  want  of  in 
telligence. 

u  It  seems  to  be  true  that — within  certain  limits 
—  the  less  the  heart  the  more  of  a  certain  kind  of 
talent.  Things  become  abnormal  only  when  there 
is  either  too  much  or  too  little  of  any  necessary  fac 
tor  ;  so,  in  a  worldly  point  of  view,  while  it  is  true 
that  too  much  heart  causes  its  possessor  disappoint 
ment,  too  little  of  it  engenders  stoicism  and  cru 
elty, —  both  being  abnormal  states  of  being. 

l>  A  person  without  any  natural  affection  could 
never  become  an  angel,  while  he  might  be  well 
fitted  to  occupy  the  position  of  tyrant,  or  despot. 

u  It  is  fashionable  to  be  heartless,  because,  some 
how,  heartlessness  is  coupled  with  success.  The 
'dimness'  of  snobbism  is  only  a  milk-and-water 
form  of  it.  A  merchant  who  has  a  heart  is  not 
generally  the  ricJii'at  man  in  the  community,  al 
though  he  may  be  the  happiest. 

'•  A  landlord  without  a  conscience'  generally  col 
lects  more  of  the  money  due  him,  and  is  a  much 


140         A  FASHIONABLE  SUFFEKER. 

greater  miser  than  lie  whose  eye  glistens  at  the 
sight  of  poverty.  A  man  who  gives  thump  for 
thump  in  the  jostle  of  life,  and  rides  rough-shod 
over  society,  is  the  one  who  has  the  best  chance  of 
exercising  his  skill  in  these  particulars. 

"  According  to  the  popular  creed,  success  is  life, 
non-success,  death.  To  succeed,  a  man  must  be 
without  a  heart.  To  fail,  he  has  only  to  possess 
one.  The  soul  of  trade  is  self-interest ;  therefore, 
the  more  the  self-interest,  the  more  the  trade. 

"  Popular  logic  is  very  simple,  and  the  deduction 
comes  very  easy.  The  result  of  all  this  is  that  love 
for  others  and  self-sacrifice  are  seldom  found  in  the 
mart  of  trade.  Instead  of  these,  k  tit  for  tat '  and 
'  quid  pro  quo  '  jostle  you  at  every  turn. 

u  Society  acknowledges  all  this,  and  admits   that 

it   is   necessary  to  success;   yet  flatters  itself  tli;it 

'way  down  in  its  inmost  heart  there  is,  somewhere, 

an  exhaustless  philanthropy ;  and  perhaps  there  is 

-  I  don't  happen  to  see  much  of  it. 

"  When  \ve  leave  the  mart  of  trade  and  ascend  to 
the  'dress-circle  '  of  society,  wo  meet  there  a  differ 
ent  species  of  the  same  tribe.  At  the  door  of  this 
cultivated  sphere  everybody  assumes  a  mask,  which, 
once  put  on,  is  only  laid  away  with  death. 

"  Presenting  to  each  other  this  false  front,  we  are 
enabled  to  say  to  our  dearest  friend  the  very  op 
posite  from  what  we  mean.  We  appear  glad  when 
we  are  sorry ;  we  weep  when  we  are  really  laugh 
ing,  and  wTe  are  gayest  when  we  are  saddest.  Some 


A  FASHIONABLE  SUFFERER.          141 

people  call  this  '  conventionalism.'  Whatever  it  is, 
it  engenders  an  unique  species  of  humanity.  This 
society  exotic  numbers  among-  its  fraternity  both 
men  and  women.  There  are  in  '  society  '  no-hearted 
mothers  and  no-hearted  fathers,  as  there  are  no- 
hearted  saints  and  no-hearted  sinners.  Amonsj  the 

O 

motley  group  of  this  species,  let  us  select  a  single 
example,  — "  ab  uno  disce  omnes,'  I  take  the  first 
that  comes  to  hand.  It  is  a  man.  Now,  why  is  it 
that  disappointment  rises  in  the  mind  at  this  an 
nouncement?  'A  no-hearted  man!'  says  society, 
k  It  goes  without  saying,'  *  Would  n't  it  be  better, 
and  more  entertaining,  if  search  should  be  made 
until,  peradventure,  a  specimen  of  the  other  sex  be 
discovered?'  Perhaps  society  is  right.  By  dint  of 
great  endeavor  we  have  found  such  an  one.  There 
she  sits  before  us  in  all  her  majesty. 

"  This  individual  seems  to  have  been  born  with 
out  the  capacity  of  loving.  Cool,  calculating,  and 
sallow,  she  excites  love  in  others,  without  a  scintil 
lation  of  it  in  herself!  She  is  a  hunter  who  brings 
down  her  game  by  adroitness.  Sighings  and  tears 
are  not  found  in  her  vocabulary.  Self-control  sup 
plies  the  place  of  passion,  and  a  sluggish  circulation 
of  a  throbbing  pulse.  She  takes  every  possible  ad 
vantage  of  her  natural  charms,  in  order  to  success. 
She  modulates  her  sharp  voice  to  a  persuasive  key, 
concealing  its  natural  asperity  with  consummate 
tact.  Her  life's  secret  —  were  it  ever  known  —  is 
ambition.  Her  apparently  pliant  will  is  in  reality 


142          A  FASHIONABLE  SUFFERER. 

inflexible.  In  her  association  with  men,  she  bids 
for  their  devotion  by  every  artifice  at  her  command. 
To  every  favoring  breeze  she  sets  her  sails,  —  pro 
vided  that  it  brings  her  to  the  haven  tv  \vhere  she 
would  be,"  —  success.  To  see  a  strong  man  surren 
der  to  her  blandishments,  and  sit  a  vanquished 
prisoner  at  her  feet,  is  a  "sweet  boon'  which  makes 
her  anthracite  eyes  to  glisten.  To  obtain  his  love 
and  to  gain  the  mastery  of  his  opinions  is  her  single 
aim. 

"  If  she  has  no  thought  of  returning  his  affection, 
it  is  because  she  actually  has  none  to  return.  But 
so  cleverly  does  she  simulate  love,  that  her  willing 
vassal  simpers  at  her  feet,  never  quite,  but  always 
'  to  be'  blest.  Never  overcome  by  '  her  feelings,' 
she  is  pretty  sure  of  doing  the  'right  thing'  under 
all  circumstances. 

"No  solecism  is  ever  laid  at  her  door,  and  her 
morals  are,  apparently,  as  correct  as  her  manners. 
She  has  several  secret  unwritten  aims  in  life.  One 
is,  to  be  considered  the  most  beautiful  woman  in 
society.  If  nature  denies  her  that,  then  she  bends 
all  her  efforts  to  become  the  most  fascinating.  If 
this  is  impossible,  then  the  most  fashionable,  and  so 
on.  The  'most  something'  she  will  be,  even  if  it 
is  the  most  dangerous  of  her  sex.  Having  achieved 
success  in  some  one  of  these  directions,  she  is  apt  to 
be  patronizing  to  certain  of  her  aspiring  compan 
ions  who  have  not  been  quite  so  fortunate.  Such  a 
woi nan  has  a  deal  of  tact,  and  finds  it  advantageous 


A  FASHIONABLE  SUFFERER.          143 

to  be  attentive  to  the  aged.  '  It  is  not  a  bad  thing, 
you  know,'  to  hear  these  good,  people  say  of  her, 
'  she  is  so  kind  and  attentive.' 

"  Such  a  woman,  also,  is  very  particular  in  her 
social  obligations.  To  strangers,  if  they  happen  to 
be  guests  of  the  best  people,  she  is  especially  gra 
cious.  Of  her  poor  relations  she  is  not  always  quite, 
so  solicitous  —  for  to  such  an  one  — who  may  perhaps 
have  just  successfully  planted  her  foot  on  a  certain 
coveted  plane  of  social  standing  —  what  greater 
misfortune  than  to  meet  on  the  boulevard  'poor 
Aunt  Rebecca,'  or  threadbare  '  I'ncle  Josiah  ?' 

"Her  husband,  poor  man,  was  one  of  the  few 
'  eligibles '  who  nibbled  at  her  matrimonial  hook 
when  she  first  seated  herself  on  the  banks  of  life. 
The  others  —  happy  creatures  —  got  away  just  in 
time  to  k  save  their  bacon/  leaving  their  senti 
mental  rival  fast  entangled  in  the  fatal  net.  This 
'catch'  was  a  rich  one,  and  on  it  she  has  gloated 
ever  since.  Position  and  wealth  is  good  diet  for 
famished  seekers,  so  the  no-hearted  wife  is  gorged 
and  happy.  She  is  most  '  out  of  place  '  when  she 
pays  visits  of  condolence,  and  endeavors  to  sympa 
thize  with  real  sorrow.  Here  tragedy  becomes 
comedy  :  and  her  words  of  pity  are  mere  ghosts  of 
sound.  Nevertheless,  no-hearted  women  are  of 
some  value  after  all,  for  they  are  the  ones  who 
never  forget  themselves.  When  the  house  is  burn 
ing  up,  or  when  people  are  dying,  they  are  per 
fectly  self-possessed,  and  know  just  the  right  thing 


144         A  FASHIONABLE  SUFFERER. 

to  do.  By  their  thoughtfulness  the  silver  is  saved, 
even  though  the  baby  burns  up,  and  the  grand 
piano  is  safely  moved  into  the  neighboring  lot,  and 
the  bearers'  gloves  are  just  the  right  number. 

"•In  domestic  life,  too,  they  often  make  good 
mothers.  On  this  point  — that  of  children  —  they 
come  nearer  to  an  exhibition  of  affection  than  on 
any  other.  Yet  there  is  no  self-sacrifice  in  dressing 
"  little  Maria,'  and  '•cunning  Ethel,'  so  as  to  attract 
attention  and  make  people  turn  in  the  street  and 
sav,  "Those  are  Mrs.  Saintley's  lovely  children'  — 

i/   *  \J  \J 

"  So  like  mamma  '  -—  '  Such  a  French  accent ! '  But 
when  she  gets  out  on  the  avenue  she  is  apt  to  over 
look  other  people's  children,  unless  it  possibly  be 
Lady  Alice's,  or  those  of  Madame  La  Comtesse. 

"The  no-hearted  woman  snubs  her  husband 
dreadfully.  Although  he  is  strong  enough  to  double 
her  up  and  throw  her  out  of  the  window,  she  knows 
by  experience  that  he  loves  her  too  well  to  do  any 
thing  of  the  kind.  So  she  discovers  his  little  weak 
nesses,  and  plays  upon  them  a  delightful  tune  at 
her  pleasure.  First,  slit1  calls  forth  his  admiration 
and  love  by  simulating  unfeigned  attachment,  then 
she  tantali/es  him  by  continual  disappointment, 
until,  wound  up  in  her  toils,  the  warm-hearted 
booby  tumbles  into  the  pit  prepared  for  him  by  his 
cool-headed  Delilah.  In  every-day  life  she  takes 
care  to  be  just  a  little  disagreeable  and  indifferent; 
not  doing  her  whole  duty,  and  yet  not  wholly  neg 
lecting  it.  She  is  guilty  of  more  sins  of  omission 


A  FASHIONABLE  SUFFERER.          145 

than  of  commission,  and  so  manages  to  sail  over 
life's  seas  pretty  smoothly  ;  giving'  her  husband  a 
threadbare  sort  of  happiness,  and  herself  a  good 
deal  of  selfish  satisfaction.  She  dies  a  stoical  old 
woman. 

"  One  can  scarcely  associate  domestic  love  with 
such  an  alliance.  Of  the  two,  the  wife  is  much  the 
.  better  off,  because  her  idea  of  joy  is  mere  success, 
and  this  she  has  attained.  It  is  difficult  to  say  just 
what  the  other  party  got  for  his  money.  The  best 
that  can  be  affirmed  is.  that  he  bought  a  plated 
imitation  of  the  real  article. 

"•  Even  when  a  kind  Providence  takes  pity  on 
the  husband  and  removes  him  from  this  pinchbeck 
happiness,  it  mysteriously  seems  to  redound,  even 
then,  to  his  partner's  gain  :  for  there  are  instances 
where  even  this  event  has  banished  from  her  path 
the  last  stumbling-block  to  a  wife's  ambition. 

"On  this  lugubrious  occasion  the  subject  of  our 
remarks  is  tearless  for  weeks  together.  'Stunned,' 
people  say  she  is.  Her  crape  is  very  deep,  but 
very  becoming.  Tier  pale  countenance  exhibits 
the  ravages  of  inward  grief.  Her  cap  is  exquisitely 
plain,  and  of  the  latest  mode.  When  the  will  is 
read  and  she  hears  that  she  is  still  to  have  twenty 
thousand  dollars  a  year,  and  all  the  plate  and  the 
family  lace,  she  folds  her  hands  with  a  heavenly 
expression  of  resignation.  At  the  proper  time, 
however,  after  the  weary  months  of  etiquette 
have  rolled  away,  she  emerges  from  her  tribula- 
10 


146         A  FASHIONABLE  SUFFERER. 

tion  with  a  very  good  appetite  and  a  pair  of  huge 

solitaires." 


After  he  had  finished  reading,  Mr.  Oynicus  Douce 
folded  up  the  slip  and  replaced  it  in  his  pocket- 
book. 

"  That 's  a  libel  on  the  sex  !  "  said  Amelia. 

"•It's  a  foul  slander  on  woman,  written  by  a 
coward  !  "  bravely  exclaimed  Miss  Brown. 

"No  such  creature  was  ever  born!"  remarked 
Miss  .Jones. 

"She's  worse  than  Becky  Sharpe  !  " 

"  The  individual  who  wrote  that  was  an  opium- 
eater  !  "  said  I>ucy. 

"  It  doesn't  make  it  true,  ladies,  because  he  says 
so,"  added  Mr.  Douce. 

"  lie  magnifies  into  perfected  traits  of  character, 
what  in  nature  are  never  more  than  bare  sugges 
tions,"  said  Mr.  Worthington. 

"Yes,"  interrupted  Mr.  Douce,  "we  all  undoubt 
edly  have  two  natures  within  us,  and  one  of  these 
natures  has  been  diabolically  magnified  by  the 
genial  writer  of  this  article  beyond  all  bounds." 

"  Two  natures  !"  said  Miss  Brown.  "I  believe 
we  all  have  two,  —  at  least  I  have,  —  and  I'm  con 
stantly  settling  disputes  between  them.  It's  a 
great  bore,  this  hot  weather." 

"  Come,  Douce,"  remarked  Mr.  Worthington,  "  as 
you  have  suggested  this  dual  idea,  why  can't  you 
give  us  your  views  on  the  subject  in  extenso  ?  " 


A    FASHIONABLE    SUFFERER. 


147 


"  It 's  too  late,"  said  Douco. 

"  I  don't  mean  now.  Write  them  out  and  read 
them  at  Paradise  Hall.  We '11  all  go,  —  fifty  cents 
a  head." 

"  All  right,"  answered  Mr.  Douce,  "  I  '11  do  it  if 
you  will  promise  to  sit  it  out." 

Of  course  they  promised,  and  so  it  was  agreed 
that  Mr.  Cynicus  Douce  should  formally  present 
his  views  on  "our  dual  individuality''  at  Paradise 
Hall  the  next  Wednesday  evening  at  eight  o'clock, 
for  the  benefit  of  the  library  fund. 

The  melon  party  then  took  leave  of  their  hospi 
table  host  under  the  starlight. 


CHAPTER  IV. 


THE    LAST    CHAPTER    IN    THE    DIARY     OF     AN     UNFORTUNATE 
GENTLEMAN. 

('CORDING  to  promise, 
Mr.  Douce  dreAv  from 
his  pocket  the  diary  of 
the  unfortunate  gentle 
man,  found  in  his  cham 
ber  after  his  demise,  and 
proceeded  to  read  the 
last  portions  of  it  to  his 
friends  on  the  "  Hill."  The 
little  group  of  attentive  listeners 
gathered  around  him  were  eager  to 
hear  what  else  the  poor  creature  had  to  say  about 
himself  and  the  cruel  world  which  had  used  him  so 
badly.  The  ladies  of  the  company,  remembering 
the  merciless  treatment  which  he  had  received  at 
the  hands  of  the  "  young  person  in  Rome,"  as 
Mrs.  George  Madison  Taggart  called  her,  were 
filled  with  the  hope  that  the  concluding  chapters 
of  this  doleful  history  would  embody  a  happier 
tale,  and  unfold  a  better  future  for  their  deceased 


A  FASHIONABLE  SUFFERER.          149 

brother.  Mindful  of  their  own  innocence  of  con 
duct  toward  the  other  sex,  they  condemned,  with 
out  reserve1,  the  heartless  coquetry  of  Eleanor  Don 
ald.  They  vowed  that  if  these  concluding  chapters 
did  not  exhibit  something  more  noble  and  compli 
mentary  to  their  own  sex,  they  would  believe  the 
whole  thing  was  a  trumped-up  affair  of  Cynicus 
Donee's,  and  not  at  all  the  truthful  tale  it  pre 
tended  to  be. 

"  Ladies/1  began  Mr.  Douce,  "  please  remember 
that  this  is  a  large  world,  and  in  it  are  people  hold 
ing  every  shade  of  opinion,  and  influenced  by  every 
variety  of  motive.  We  must  not  deceive  ourselves 
with  the  thought  that  real  people  are  made  up  like 
the  heroes  and  the  heroines  of  modern  romance. 
The  real  human  heart  is  a  common  sort  of  an  affair 
after  all,  and  its  action  is  governed  a  good  deal 
after  the  simple  rule  of  selfishness  and  self-preser 
vation.  We  instinctively  pursue  that  which  will 
redound  to  our  own  advantage,  and  are  too  apt  to 
be  careless  about  what  may  happen  to  our  neigh 
bor.  We  seldom  see  those  ideal  men  and  women 
who  strut  across  the  stage  of  modern  fiction,  parad 
ing  across  our  stage  of  experience  ;  and  so,  1  think, 
we  would  much  better  look  at  life  just  as  we  find 
it,  than  be  always  imagining  it  to  be  what  it  is 
not." 

Mr.  Douce  stopped  to  breathe  after  this  little  vir 
tuous  speech,  whereupon  Amelia  said  :  — 

"  For  my  part,  every-day  human  nature  is  so  hid- 


160         A  FASHIONABLE  SUFFERER. 

eons  tli at  I  love  to  imagine  that  I  live  in  an  atmos 
phere  where  things  are  what  1  would  like  to  have 
them." 

"  Yes,''  replied  Mr.  Douce,  "but  the  constant 
reading  of  the  modern  novel  puts  us  in  a  false 
sphere  ;  and  this  it  is  which  unfits  a  man  to  cope 
with  the  ugly  realities  of  life  about  him.  drive  me 
the  truth,  the  immortal  truth,  bitter  or  sweet,  then 
I  know  just  where  J  am.  No  mawkish  sentiment 
about  what  never  was,  will  ever  make  it  easier  to 
earn  my  living." 

"I  agree  with  you,"  replied  Lady  Angela. 
"And  it  is  this  unreality,  I  take  it,  wherein  lies  the 
bad  effect  which  modern  romance  produces  upon 
us.  But  how  beautifully  we  women  do  act  in 
these  works  of  fiction.  I  like  to  cheat  myself  with 
the  belief  that  it  's  all  true." 

"  No  doubt  you  are  all  right,  and  all  wrong,  my 
friends,"  exclaimed  Miss  Brown.  "  Novels  are 
mighty  nice  things,  and  I  expect  to  read  them  all 
my  life.  But  let 's  hear  our  deceased  friend's  last 
words  first,  and  then  we  '11  discuss  this  other  ques 
tion.  Shall  Air.  Douce  begin?  " 

"  He  shall,"  they  all  said. 

Here  appeared  on  the  green  a  servant  with  a 
pitcher  of  iced  lemonade,  with  tumblers.  The 
clinking  ice  gave  a  most  refreshing  sound.  They 
all  partook.  After  a  bumper  of  this  delicious  bev 
erage  Mr.  Douce  read  the  title  of  this  chapter, 
which  was,  — 


A   FASHIONABLE   SUFFERER. 


151 


"TOUJOURS  —  A    SWISS    IDYL. 

lio.M  Strasbourg  to  Basle,  from  Basle 
to  Mencliatel.  IVoin  Xenchatel  to 
Geneva,  and  from  Geneva  to  Cha- 
niounix.  —  that  was  the  route  we 
took.  After  crossing  the  Tete-Noir 
as  iar  as  Martigny,  we  intended  to 
drive  round  to  Yevay  :  then  go  to 
Berne,  Thun,  Jnterlachen,  and  Lau- 
terbrunneii,  so  as  to  be  ready  to 
commence  a  pedestrian  lour  over 
the  Bernese  Alps.  At  Chamounix  it  rained  like 
"everything."  but  when  we  reached  .Martigny  the 
weather  cleared  again  and  promised  to  be  steady. 
The  next  morning,  after  our  arrival  there,  was  su 
perb,  and  we  decided  at  once  to  ascend  the  Grand 
St.  Bernard  and  lodge  fora  night  at  the  Hospice. 
The  journey  up  the  pass,  as  far  as  the  little  village 
of  Liddes,  is  performed  in  char-a-bancs.  Then,  after 
the  noon-day  meal,  the  mules  are  taken  from  the 
vehicles  and  mounted  for  the  rest  of  the  way,  some 
twelve  miles,  to  the  Hospice. 

u  As  we  ascended  from  the  vale  of  Martigny  by 
the  little  winding  road  which  carried  us  past  the 
rustic  chalets,  the  low  cow-stables,  the  gushing 
streams  of  water,  and  the  sturdv  villagers,  we  had 
full  opportunity  to  enjoy  the  scene.  Clouds  hung 
over  the  misty  mountain  tops,  then  cleared  away, 


152          A  FASHIONABLE  SUFFERER. 

leaving  their  icy  summits  in  bold  accentuation 
against  the  bluest  sky. 

"  Wreathing,  lazy  smoke  found  its  way  into  the 
upper  air  ;  bleating  goats  and  tinkling  cow-bells 
sounded  in  the  distance ;  while  groups  of  peas 
ants  in  rough  homespun  stockings  and  hob-nailed 
shoes  moved  by  our  carriage  on  their  way  to  and 
from  the  hills  above. 

"•At  breakfast  we  had  partaken  heartily  of  the 
aromatic  Swiss  honey,  which,  with  fresh  bread  and 
butter,  is  never  more  palatable  than  when  one 
leaves  the  A'ale  of  Martigny  for  the  Alps  above 
him.  As  we  mounted  higher  and  higher  we  ob 
served  a  party  of  tourists  at  some  distance  in  ad 
vance,  which  was  apparently  bound  for  the  same 
destination  as  ourselves.  Some  curiosity  was  nat 
urally  excited  to  discover  who  and  what  they  were. 
On  nearer  inspection  their  dress  and  general  ap 
pearance  proclaimed  them  to  be  Knglish.  Two 
young  girls,  t\vo  young  men,  and  a  more  elderly 
couple,  who  might  be  man  and  wife.  We  learned 
all  this  from  observation  from  our  cJiar-a-banc,  as 
the  cavalcade  wound  its  way  around  the  big  bowl 
ders  and  across  the  mountain  torrents. 

"•  Sitting  in  a  constrained  position  hour  after 
hour  was  so  fatiguing  that  I  alighted  from  the 
"  char  "  for  a  walk.  A  powerful  mule  hauled  our 
carriage,  and  I  could  but  notice  her  black  points 
and  fine  action.  She  drew  us  up  the  mountain 

with  great  ease,  showing  no  signs  of  distress,  while 

•s 


A    FASHTONAI5LK    SUFFERER. 


158 


her  bright  eyes  glanced  from  right  to  left,  and  her 
delicate  ears  moved  backward  and  forward. 

'•  When  she  stopped  to  catch  breath,  I  noticed 
that  our  Jehu  fed  her  with  bits  of  black  bread 
which  he  cut  from  a  loaf  taken  out  of  his  box. 
Then,  after  patting  the  animal,  we  would  start 
cheerily  up  again  toward  Liddes. 


"I  soon  caught  up  with  the  English  party,  with 
their  alpen-stocks  and  their  green  veils,  their  red 
'Murrays'  and  their  healthy  faces. 

"As  we  sauntered  up  the  winding  pass  I  found 
the  men  of  the  company,  with  whom  we  fell  into 
conversation,  pleasant  and  chatty.  I  spied  a  couple 
of  Alpine  roses  just  l>v  the  road-side,  which  I  gath 
ered  and  courteously  presented  to  the  young  girls, 
who  accepted  them  with  the  usual  "thanks.'  Far 
ther  on  I  saw,  under  an  immense  jutting  bowlder, 
and  down  some  distance  from  our  line  of  direction, 
a  small  bunch  of  edelweiss,  which  1  sprang  for 
ward  to  pick.  This  interested  the  whole  company 


154 


A    FASHIONABLE   SUFFERER. 


a  good  deal,  who  stopped  and  watched  my  move 
ments  with  curiosity.     I   managed  at  last  to  seize 

upon  it,  at  some 
little 
haps, 


risk,  per- 
of  falling 
off  the  precipice, 
yet  not  enough 
to  make  it  of 
any  moment.  I 
brought  the  cov 
eted  white  flow 
ers  to  the  expect 
ant  group  and 
gave  them,  with 
a  decent  show  of  gal- 
ntry,  to  the  fairest  of 
ic  two  girls.  This  per- 
deserves  especial  no- 
cause  she  proved  to  be 
ctly  charming  and  de- 
What  author  is  it 
who  has  said,  '  The  most  beautiful, 
the  most  lovable,  and  the  purest 
form  in  which  nature  ever  exhibits 
herself,  is  iu  a  young  woman  under 
twenty:  well  bred,  well  born,  and  well  educated; 
with  hair  like  a  fairy  and  head  like  a  goddess  ; 
straight,  lithe,  and  pure-hearted  ;  with  shell-like 
ears  and  chiseled  nose.  Her  laugh  like  running 
water,  and  her  breath  a  morning  zephyr.  Her 


woman. 


A    FASHIONABLE    SUFFERER.  155 

clear,  guileless  eyes  look  at  you  with  innocence, 
while,  like  the  wild  game  in  an  unexplored  coun 
try,  she  walks  about  her  enemy,  man,  without 
fear  or  tremor?'  The  above  description  fitted  the 
object  of  our  notice  in  many  of  its  details.  She 
must  have  been,  however,  oue-aiid-twenty  at  least, 
while  her  hair,  instead  of  resembling  a  t'airv's.  was 
straigliter  and  more  self-contained  than  is  generally 
attributed  to  those  creatures  of  fancy.  In  other 
particulars  she  satisfied  the  above  requirements. 
As  we  walked  along,  we  compared  each  other's 
alpen-stocks,  and  the  names  of  the  various  Swiss 
wonders  branded  upon  them.  It  turned  out  that 
her  party  was  about  leaving  Switzerland,  having 
gone  over  much  the  same  road  upon  which  we 
were  preparing  to  enter.  She  told  me  that  they 
had  just  passed  a  night  on  the  '  Faulthorn,"  and  she 
maintained  that  its  summit  was  much  higher  than 
the  top  of  the  pass  we  were  now  mounting.  Some 
of  her  party — her  cousins  and  aunt  —  held  the 
contrary  opinion  :  and  she  immediately  bespoke 
my  partisanship  to  her  side  of  the  question.  I 
told  her  that  I  had  no  doubt  that  she  was  correct 
in  her  supposition,  as  I  happened  to  know  that  there 
was  some  eighty  or  ninety  feet  in  favor  of  her  moun 
tain.  Just  then,  as  we  rounded  a  corner,  the  clus 
ter  of  un painted  chalets  —  composing  the  village  of 
Liddes  —  came  into  view,  and  the  whole  company 
pressed  eagerly  forward  towards  it. 

"  The   mules  were   unharnessed   and  hitched  in 


156 


A   FASHIONABLE    SUFFERER. 


the  shade,  while  the  party  amused  itself  as  best  it 
could,  awaiting  the  noon-day  meal,  which  was  being 
prepared. 

tk  I  walked  round  to  the  log-stable  to  see  the  ani 
mals.  There  I  found  the  driver  of  our  char-a-banc 
talking  with  the  ladies  of  the  English  party,  who 
were  admiring  the  mule  which  had  pulled  our  car 
riage.  The  man  cut  off  pieces  of  bread  and  held 


them  before  the  animal,  which  would  prick  up  its 
ears  and  advance  towards  the  tempting  morsel, 
in  quite  a  noble  style. 

"  "  What  is  its  name  ?  '  asked  the  elder  of  the  two 
ladies. 

"  '  Toujours,  madam e  ! '  replied  the  driver,  touch 
ing  his  visor. 

"  '  Toujours  !  What  an  odd  name.  May  I  ask 
why  it  has  such  a  curious  one  ? ' 


A  FASHIONABLE  SUFFERER.          157 

"  '  Oh,  yes,  certainly,  madam e  !  We  call  her 
Tou jours  because  she  is  always  so  willing-  to  go, 
and  always  so  good-natured,  and  always  so  him- 

gry-'     . 

"  k  I  'm  sure,  then,  Toujours  is  very  appropriate 
to  her,'  said  the  lady. 

u  "  That  is  the  best  mule  in  the  whole  canton, 
madame ;  and  would  n't  mademoiselle  sketch  her 
for  my  wife  ?  '  asked  the  man,  looking  towards  the 
younger  lady. 

«/  v 

"'I  hardly  feel  up  to  that  sort  of  thing,'  re 
plied  the  beautiful  girl ;  —  k  perhaps  this  gentleman 
would/  looking  at  me  as  she  spoke. 

"  k  I  don't  mind  trying,'  said  I,  '  but  let  me  get 
a  good  look  at  her  first,'  and  I  walked  around  the 
animal  to  examine  her  points.  Soon  after  this  I 
entered  what,  by  the  sign  over  the  door,  was  the 
tap-room  of  the  rude  inn  which  served  for  a  refuge 
for  travelers.  I  seated  myself  on  a  bench  and  before 
a  wide,  long  deal  table  which  extended  down  the 
whole  length  of  the  low-studded  and  vacant  apart 
ment,  and  upon  which  meals  were  served.  I  took 
out  my  utensils  for  drawing,  and  commenced  a 
sketch  of  Toujours  from  memory. 

"I  drew  her  head  and  rubbed  it  out,  then  com 
menced  again,  got  her  expression,  went  on,  came 
to  her  fore-legs,  and  stopped  to  decide  what  was 
best  next  to  do,  when  I  perceived  what  seemed  to 
be  the  quiet,  regular  breathing  of  something  or 
somebody  just  over  my  head.  I  raised  my  pencil 


158 


A   FASHIONABLE    SUFFERER. 


from  the  paper,  and,  while  the  color  mounted  in 
my  cheeks,  I  turned  slowly  about  in  the  direction 
of  the  sound.  There,  just  above  my  shoulders  and 
not  a  yard  from  my  own  face,  stood  the  beautiful 
English  girl  and  her  aunt  watching  my  operations 
with  respectful  interest. 

"  '  Excuse  us  for  interrupting  you  ?  '  said  the 
older  lady,  —  w  but  we  are  very  much  interested  to 
see  how  Toujours  comes  on.' 


"'  It  is  no  interruption,'  said  I.  *  I  don't  think 
I  've  succeeded  anv  too  well/ 

u  •  The  likeness  is  very  good:  and  how  rapidly 
you  do  it !  You  are  something  of  an  artist,  I  see.' 

"  '  Yes,  perhaps  so.  I  am  very  fond  of  sketching,' 
I  replied,  as  T  finished  the  drawing. 

"  '  Oil,  that  is  fine  !  '  exclaimed  the  beautiful  girl, 
who  had  not  spoken  before,  but  who  could  not  re- 


A  FASHIONABLE  SUFFERER.          159 

strain  the  expression  of  JUT  approval.  'It's  capi 
tal,  and  so  like  Toujours, — please  let  me  look 
at  it,'  —  so  she  took  the  sketch  in  her  own  fair 
hands  while  1  peeped  just  over  her  shoulder. 

••This  was  the  second  step  in  or,r  acquaintance; 
so  when  we  started  from  Liddes  for  the  Hospice,  1 
felt  that  perhaps  1  was  warranted  in  trotting  lie- 
side  her  on  Toujours  for  the  remainder  of  the  jour 
ney. 

••The  summit  of  the  (irand  St.  Bernard  is  a 
gloomy  spot  ;  hut  very  like  all  other  summits  of 
the  Alps.  The  mere  debris  of  the  world  —  as  if 
Omnipotence  had  piled  up  the  pieces  there,  after 
finishing  creation. 

••  Our  united  parties  straggled  up  single  file,  to  a, 
barn-looking  structure,  and  were  met  by  one  of  the 
holy  brethren,  who  at  once  dashed  to  the  ground 
all  my  preconceived  notions  of  the  monks  of  St. 
Bernard. 

*••  Instead  of  an  aged  man  with  cowl  and  san 
dal,  with  lantern  and  alpen-stock,  followed  by  a 
faithful  dog,  we  were  received  by  a  bustling  young 
gentleman  in  glasses.  He  wore  a  tall  black  visor- 
less  hat,  long  garment,  reaching  to  the  feet,  of 
the  same  material,  and  the  white  badge  of  his  order 
about  his  neck.  lie  was  neither  emaciated  by 
penury,  nor  bronzed  by  exposure,  but  in  the  most 
affable  manner  he  conducted  us  to  the  salon,  where 
the  cloth  was  laid  for  dinner,  and  he  directed  our 
attention  to  an  open  piano. 


160 


A   FASHIONABLE    SUFFERER. 


u  A  regular  menu,  with  Bordeaux  wine,  took  the 
place  of  the  ideal  fare  of  the  monks  of  old.  After 
this,  the  stranger's  book  was  brought  in  for  our  sig 
natures. 

ki  The  nationality  of  our  newly  made  acquaint 
ances  was  a  certainty,  in  our  minds,  while  they  were 
not  as  well  informed  in  regard  to  our  own.  For 
while  we  talked  English  perfectly  well,  we  certainly 
were  not  English.  And  as  there  were  so  many 
blue-eyed  Germans  and  Russian  tourists  who  spoke 
the  Anglo  tongue  without  an  accent,  a  well-bred 
curiosity  was  pardonable  to  discover  whom  we 
should  actually  prove  to  be.  How  well  1  remem 
ber  the  signatures  of  our 
English  friends.  That  of 
my  particular  acquaint 
ance  was  bold  and  very 
legible.  She  took  the 
pen  and  wrote,  l  Miss 
Edith  («rey,  Tamworth, 
England,'  without  hesita 
tion.  It  then  came  to  our 
own  turn,  and  I  noticed 
the  look  of  suppressed 
satisfaction  when  they 
finally  settled  the  ques 
tion  as  to  who  and  what 
we  were.  Such  a  merry  time  we  had  after  dinner, 
singing  national  songs,  and  telling  our  adventures  ! 
kt  The  accommodations  for  the  night  at  the  llos- 


A   FASHIONABLE   SUFFERER. 


161 


pice  were  abundant.  The  beds  had  canopies,  albeit 
there  was  but  one  small  window  in  our  chambers, 
and  that  one  cross-barred  with  iron. 

"  The   next  morning  we  awoke  in  a  great  snow 
storm,  and  the   look  outside  was  anything1  but  pro 


pitious.  We  attended  early  mass,  deposited  in 
the  charity-box  what  we  judged  equivalent  to  a 
night's  lodging,  inspected  the  morgue,  where  were 
the  unreclaimed  bodies  of  those  unfortunates  who 
an;  found  on  the  mountains,  and  then  prepared  our 
selves  to  descend  into  the  valley.  The  whole  Alp 
was  enveloped  in  a  snow-cloud.  We  could  scarcely 
11 


162  A    FASHIONABLE   SUFFERER. 

see  our  way,  so  that  I  feared  lest  Miss  Grey  might 
lose,  her  self-possession  and  something  befall  her. 
This  was  my  excuse  for  posting  myself  at  her  bri 
dle,  and  guiding  her  mule  down  the  blind  and 
slippery  pass. 

"  The  party  would  at  one  time  be  completely  lost 
in  the  great  surging  cloud  :  and  then  emerge  again 
with  weird  effect  from  the  enormous  rifts  which 
lay  about  us.  This  circumstance  brought  Miss 
(irey  and  myself  constantly  together,  and  I  re 
joiced  that  the  snow  was  as  thick  as  it  was,  and 
that  1  had  the  good  fortune  of  being  up  in  the 
clouds  with  such  a  charming  woman. 

"1  shall  not  soon  forget  the  grand  sight  of  the 
lower  valley,  reveling  in  sunshine,  and  sparkling 
in  the  drops  of  the  recent  showers,  which  suddenly 
burst  upon  us,  as  we  slowly  emerged  from  the  snow- 
cloud  :  iirst  our  feet,  then  our  persons,  and  last  of 
all  our  drenched  and  dripping  heads.  It  was  like 
a  sudden  revelation  —  a  beautiful  vision  brought 
before  our  eyes. 

"'Weary,  delighted,  and  lilled  with  satisfaction, 
mv  companion  and  I  bade  our  friends  good-night 
at  the  foot  of  the  mountain,  promising  to  meet  them 
all  again  on  the  following  day.  Unluckily,  we  were 
lodged  at  different  hotels,  which  made  it  a  little 
more  difficult  to  meet;  still  that  fact  stimulated 
my  wish  to  do  so  all  the  more.  Some  unfortunate 
experiences  in  former  years  had  made  me  somewhat 
wary  of  placing  implicit  faith  in  anybody ;  yet  I 


A  FASHIONABLE  SUFFERER.         163 

was  strongly  impressed  that  the  sweet  friend  whom 
I  had  so  recently  met  was  true  and  noble. 

"  Another  beautiful  day  had  tempted  the  whole 
English  party,  with  the  exception  of  Miss  Edith 
Grey,  to  make  an  excursion  to  a  famous  waterfall 
on  the  road  to  Vevay.  Calling  at  their  hotel  after 
breakfast,  and  on  entering  their  salon,  I  was  gra 
ciously  received  by  my  new  acquaintance,  who 
begged  me  to  select  the  easiest  seat  I  could  find, 
and  told  me  that  the  rest  of  her  party  were  away 
for  a  day's  frolic.  After  consultation  with  a  pleas 
ant-looking  Swiss  courier,  who  had  been  their  guide 
all  through  the  mountains,  she  seated  herself  in  my 
neighborhood,  and  beside  a  white  porcelain  stove. 

"  Every  one  who  has  traveled  knows  how  easily 
people  become  intimate  with  others  whom  they 
chance  to  meet  on  their  journey,  and  that  one's 
most  cherished  friends  are  sometimes  those  whose 
acquaintance  has  been  made  in  just  this  manner. 

••  •  Didn't  we  have  a  charming  day  at  the  Hos 
pice  yesterday  ?  '  said  niy  companion. 

"•  *  Indeed,  yes,  and  unexpectedly  so,'  I  replied, 
'  because  I  commenced  the  excursion  as  a  matter 
of  duty.  I  promised  my  friends  at  home  to  go 
there.' 

"  •  I  'm  so  glad  that  our  last  impressions  of  Switz 
erland  are  so  delightful  :  and  when  we  get  back  to 
England  we  shall  all  think  that  a  monk's  life  on 
St.  Bernard  is  not  so  bad  a  lot  after  all.' 

"  *  When  do  you  start  for  Paris?  '  inquired  I. 


164         A  FASHIONABLE  SUFFERER, 

"  '  To-morrow  afternoon,  I  believe  ;  and  don't 
forget  that  when  you  come  to  England  you  must 
surelv  visit  Tamworth.' 

"  *  I  could  scarcely  help  doing  so,'  I  answered  ; 
k  for  to  me,  England  its  Tamworth,  and  Tamworth, 
England.' 

"  '  I  'm  sure  you  would  like  it ;  and  when  you 
come  to  us,  you  must  sketch  my  little  filly  that  I 
ride  on.  I>ut  before  I  forget  it,  would  it  be  ask 
ing  too  much  for  a  sketch  of  Toujours? —  "  dear 
Tou jours  ?  "  She  \vas  such  a  beauty.' 

"  "  With  the  greatest  pleasure  in  the  world,'  said 
I.  '  Have  you  pencil  and  paper? 

"•Here  they  all  are,  so  you 've  no  excuse,'  ex 
claimed  she  with  a  merrv  laugh,  k  The  pencil  is 
lovely  and  sharp,  is  n't  it?  1  did  that.' 

"  '  Just  right  :   but  what  shtill  I  draw  upon?' 

"  k  Here's  the  back  of  my  music-book  :  will  that 
do?' 

"  "  The  very  thing.'      What  shall  she  be  doing?' 

"  *  Let  me  see.  I  think  I  M  like  to  have  her 
hitched  at  the  log-barn,  when  the  driver  fed  her 
with  bread,  and  you  —  were — just  coming — no, 
just  hitched  ai  the  barn,  I  think,  Avill  do.' 

"  '  \  es  !    I  know.' 

"So  I  commenced  the  sketch,  while  a  delicious 
repose  fell  upon  the  scene.  As  I  drew,  she  looked 
over  my  shoulder,  and  rested  her  head  on  the  back 
of  my  chair,  and  I  could  feel  her  sweet  breath  fan 
my  cheek  as  it  came  and  went ;  and  sometimes, 


A   FASHIONABLE    SUFFERER.  165 

when  I  would  stop  drawing,  and  lean  back  in  order 
to  see  the  k  effect  "  of  the  sketch,  my  face  would 
come  '  mighty  near '  her  own  rosy  countenance, 
but  not  a  bit  too  near,  and  she  did  n't  seem  to  mind 
it,  and  I  know  1  did  n't. 

"  It  took  me  a  long  time  to  complete  the  like 
ness  of  Toujours  ;  I  don't  think  I  ever  was  so  long 
making  one  before,  but  1  could  n't  bear  to  alter 
a  single  circumstance  in  the  situation  of  things 
about  us.  Had  I  finished  the  sketch  before  I  act 
ually  did,  then  it  would  hardly  have  been  'the 
thing  '  to  sit  that  way  any  more,  and  my  delight 
would  have  come  suddenly  to  an  end.  Miss  (Irey 
said  she  must  take  the  sketch  in  her  own  hands,  to 
see  it  :  and  then  I  had  to  take  it  in  mine,  —  •  just 
to  alter  something  wrong  about  the  ears  of  Tou 
jours,  —  and  then  she  must  needs  look  at  it  herself 
again,  "  to  see  if  what  I  had  done  had  improved  it 
at  all  ;  '  and  then  1  wanted  to  take  it  •  just  a  sec 
ond,'  to  %  rub  out  a  wrong  line  about  the  fore-legs  ;  ' 
and  then  she  said  that  I  '  must  let  her  have  it,  for 
I  would  certainly  spoil  it  to  touch  it  any  more,  — 
it  was  just  perfect  as  it  was.1  And  so  we  kept  it 
ii}).  from  out  of  her  hands  into  mine,  until  at  last 
we  had  both  the  sketch  and  our  hands  in  each  other's 
hands,  without  reali/ing  exactly  what  we  were  both 
about :  and  yet  I  think  we  both  realized,  "a  little,' 
the  true  position  of  affairs,  after  all. 

''•That's  glorious!"  exclaimed  mv  companion, 
after  1  had  completed  the  picture  for  the  fifteenth 


166  A    FASHIONABLE    SUFFERER. 

time  ;  '  Low  can  you  do  it  so  rapidly  ?  '  Now,  I  '11 
just  piu  it  up  here  on  the  wall  to  show  to  Aunt 
Mary  and  my  cousins  when  they  return.  You  're 
very  good,  I  'in  sure,'  she  continued. 

'•  '  Not  good,'  said  I,  looking  her  in  the  eye,  '  but 
happy-' 

"•Hasn't  your  talent  for  drawing  given  you 
much  pleasure  ?  ' 

"  '  \  es  :   and  some  queer  adventures  as  well.' 

%%  '  Ah!  do  tell  me  some,'  said  she,  in  a  pleading 
tone. 

"  '  Perhaps  I  will,  for  I  'in  already  commencing 
to  feel  communicative.  It  should  he  a  reciprocal 
sort  of  an  agreement,  however.' 

"  '  How  queer  that  we  should  know  each  other 
so  well  away  oil'  here  in  Switzerland,  when,  day 
before  yesterday  neither  of  us  suspected  there  w;is 
such  a  creature  living,'-  said  Miss  (Jrey,  with  an 
expression  of  wonderment  on  her  handsome  face. 

"•Yes,  strange1  enough.  1  believe  I  was  born 
just  for  this  afternoon  !  ' 

"  'I'm  curious  to  know  if  you  have  parents,'  she 
said,  with  elevated  eyebrows  and  sympathetic  voice. 

"  •  No.' 

"  '  A  real  orphan?     How  I  pity  you.' 

v' '  Yes,  a  real,  living  orphan.' 

"  k  Is  that  the  reason  why  you  look  so  sad?' 

"  '  One  reason.' 

"  '  Do  tell  me  about  yourself.  An  orphan's  ex 
perience  must  be  very  unique  ! ' 


A  FASHIONABLE  SUFFERER.          167 

'"I'll  agree  to  relate  an  adventure  which  hap 
pened  to  me  once  while  I  was  sketching  away  up 
in  the  hill-country  of  England,  but  only  on  one 
condition.' 

"  '  And  that  one,  of  course  '  — said  she  (smelling 
an  Alpine  rose). 

"  •  Is  that  you  take  pity  on  my  motherless  state, 
and  confide  something  to  me  in  return.' 

"  '  Can  an  orphan  he  trusted  ?  '  inquired  she,  with 
a  sweet  smile. 

"'Trusted!  Don't  you  see,  an  orphan  has  no 
body  to  whom  it  can  possibly  impart  its  secrets.' 

*•  •  I  never  thought  of  that  before.  1  have  a 
mind.'  she  added,  after  a  moment's  musing,  *  I  have 
a  mind,  if  you  "11  tell  no  one,  and  care  to  return  to 
our  hotel  after  luncheon,  and  will  not  ask  loo  many 
questions,  to  narrate  the  circumstances  of  a  case 
which  happened  to  a  young  lady  once  —  who  was 
much  younger  than  she  is  now  — and  who  was  way 
ward  and  foolish,  and  who  would  never  do  such  a 
thing  again  as  long  as  she  lived.' 

"  '  1  promise,  solemnly,  on  the  word  of  an  or 
phan.' 

>k>  I  know  F  ought  n't  to  do  it.'  said  she.  ponder 
ing  over  the  idea  :  -but  I  just  tintxf,  this  once:  ;ind 
to  an  orphan,  too,  it  really  makes  some  difference, 
doesn't  it?'  she  inquired  with  winsomeness. 

"  "  All  the  difference  in  the  world,'  cried  1,  as  I 
bade  her  good-moT'ning  for  the  present,  and  rushed 
to  my  hotel  for  luncheon. 


108 


A   FASHIONABLE   SUFFERER. 


"  After  my  return  I  found  Miss  Grey  quite  eager 
to  listen  to  my  adventiire,  for  she  seated  herself  at 
my  feet,  and  raising  up  her  full,  brown  gazelle  eyes 
to  mine,  said,  '  Begin  immediately,  for  I  am  dying 
to  hear  it.' 

"  THE    STORY    OF   A    LEAD    PENCIL. 

u  I  was  once  passing  the  Sunday  at  a  hotel  in 
the  lake  and  hill  country 
of  England,  and  in  the 
neighborhood  of  a  shin 
ing  river.  The  little  inn 
had  quite  a  wide  veranda 
in  the  rear,  which  af 
forded  a  splendid  vie\v 
of  the  distant  water  and 
the  pretty  village:  be 
neath  us.  The  weather 
was  warm,  and  the  house  was  full  of  strangers. 
Among  other  parties  I  noticed  one  in  particular, 
which  consisted  of  two  young  ladies,  and  another 
older  one  who  was  their  chaperon,  and  two  male 
companions  —  students  they  appeared  to  be — who 
were  evidently  dear  acquaintances,  while  one  of 
these  gentlemen  was  undoubtedly  a  lover  of  the 
younger  girl.  The  boy  was  just  at  that  stage  of 
the  passion  when  he  had  surrendered  uncondition 
ally  to  the  enemy,  and  with  all  thought  of  further 
resistance  abandoned  was  begging  that  he  might 
simply  wear  her  chains,  and  be  put  to  the  most 


A   FASHIONABLE   SUFFERER.  169 

menial  service,  so  that  she  be  the  gainer  by  it. 
Poor  fellow  !  I  pitied  him,  and  it  was  painful  to 
view  his  pale,  passionate,  and  imploring  attitude  as 
he  approached  his  conqueror.  She  was  like  a  beau 
tiful  kitten  who  had  caught  her  first  mouse.  Her 
great  eyes  sparkled  with  a  laughing  ferocity.  Her 
cheeks  were  burning  with  the  flush  of  youth  and 
victory;  while  her  lithe  and  girlish  figure  moved 
about  with  the  dignity  and  consciousness  of  a  suc 
cessful  victor.  There  is  no  grander  sight,  in  its 
way,  than  a  young  girl's  return  from  her  first  suc 
cessful  foray  into  an. enemy's  country;  and  this 
one  was  a  fair  exhibition  of  such  an  event.  She 
glanced  at  her  victim  with  delight,  —  first  snubbing 
him  almost  to  tears, — then  beaming  upon  him 
with  a  look  of  such  ineffable  tenderness  that  it 
made  the  young  man  tremble  with  emotion.  Then 
she  would  walk  with  him  on  the  piazza,  up  and 
down,  up  and  down  :  '  cutting  '  her  eyes  about  from 
right  to  left,  as  if  in  search  of  other  conquests  ; 
taking  care,  however,  to  keep  firm  hold  on  the 
writhing  victim  in  her  grasp. 

k>l  noticed  all  this  philandering  as  I  satin  one 
(  orner  of  the  piazza,  sketching  a  large  oak,  half 
detached  from  the  ground,  a'nd  inclined  over  the 
precipice,  but  still  held  lirm  by  its  roots  to  the  soil. 
The  murderous  purpose,  then  and  there,  entered 
into  my  mind  to  try  the  power  of  my  pencil,  and 
see  if  I  could  not  attract  the  attention  of  the 
beauty,  madden  with  jealousy  her  boyish  lover,  and 


170  A   FASHIONABLE   SUFFERER. 

finally  steal  an  acquaintance  with  this  beautiful 
and  untamed  l  Katharine.'  This  is  the  way  I  went 
to  work :  I  sharpened  my  pencil,  took  a  fresh  sheet 
of  paper,  and  every  time  the  little  beauty  ap 
proached  my  position  on  the  piazza,  I  would  look 
at  her  so  seriously,  so  admiringly,  and  so  interest 
edly,  that  it  at  last  attracted  her  attention.  Then, 
as  she  got  close  to  where  I  sat,  1  woidd  immediately 
put  down  my  head  and  commence  to  draw  as  rap 
idly  as  possible.  After  several  repetitions  of  this 
sort  of  pantomime,  her  curiosity  was  so  piqued  that 
she  could  not  restrain  herself  from  casting  sidelong 
glances  at  the  picture,  as  she  moved  up  and  down 
the  veranda.  These  glances  became  bolder  and 
bolder,  until  she  became  certain  that  it  was  her 
likeness  I  was  attempting  to  sketch. 

"  Now  you  must  remember  that  this  young  lady 

v  «  O  </ 

was  still  an  imprudent  and  wayward  school-girl ; 
that  she  was  untamed  as  a  colt,  and,  moreover,  not 
above  seventeen  years  of  age.  She  had  already 
conquered  one  manly  'booby'  who  was  'blubber 
ing'  at  her  side,  and  was  now  seeking  further  to 
satisfy  her  appetite  with  more  dangerous  game. 
She  looked  beautiful  as  she  proudly  sailed  by  with 
her  languishing  '  tender  '  beside  her.  He,  wretched 
boy,  was  already  black  with  jealousy,  and  scowled 
at  me  with  direful  vengeance  as  he  passed  by  my 
corner.  Matters  were  fast  approaching  a  crisis. 
I  said  to  myself,  '  There  is  nothing  gained  by  delay. 
I  certainly  have  a  right  to  sketch  with  my  pencil, 


A  FASHIONABLE  SUFFERER.         171 

and  if  rocks  and  trees,  why  not  pretty  girls  ? ' 
Echo  answered,  'why  not?'  So  my  mind  was  at 
ease.  Luckily  at  this  juncture  the  rest  of  her 
party  appeared  at  the  hall  door  with  shawl  and 
parasol,  all  prepared  for  a  walk  to  a  neighboring 
summit  to  witness  the  sunset.  They  asked  the 
beauteous  "  Katharine '  to  accompany  them.  But 
she  excused  herself  on  the  score  of  a  headache. 
The  chaperon  then  begged  her,  but  she  refused 
again,  alleging  a  desire  to  take  a  nap.  The  student 
belonging  to  Katharine's  companion  next  lent  his 
voice  of  entreaty,  but  she  put  him  off  with  a  pretty 
laugh  of  derision.  Finally,  as  a  last  resort,  the 
fainting  lover  ventured,  sotto  voce,  and  timidly,  to 
beseecli  her  himself :  k  For  my  sake,  Kate,'  said  he  ; 
but  she  ruthlessly  snubbed  him,  in  that  loveliest  of 
all  womanly  ways,  by  ignoring  his  suggestion  alto 
gether,  and  saying,  *  Xow  you  all  go  and  have  a  good 
time,  and  when  you  return  I  shall  be  so  bright  from 
my  nap  you  won't  know  me.  There,  Maggie,  take 
my  hat.  It  "s  broader-brimmed  than  yours,  and 
will  keep  the  sun  off  better.  Good-by  ! ' 

"  So  they  were  forced  to  go  without  her,  lover 
and  all  ;  leaving  behind  them  the  charming  Kate 
on  a  secluded  piazza,  a  Sunday  afternoon  among 
the  mountains,  and  an  artist  somewhere  in  the  dis 
tance,  sketching  her  portrait,  —  a  dangerous  con 
catenation  of  circumstances,  surely  ! 

"  A  denouement  was  rapidly  approaching.  '  Kath 
arine  '  stopped  at  the  upper  end  of  the  veranda, 


172  A    FASHIONABLE   SUFFERER. 

and  leaning  her  pretty  head  on  both  her  plump 
white  hands,  surveyed  the  wide,  woody  landscape 
which  lay  before  her  with  anxious  eye.  Said  I  to 
myself,  'Will  she  now  go  in  and  leave  me,  or  will 
she  —  Macawber-like —  wait  for  "something  to 
turn  up.''  One  moment  passed,  then  another, 
still  another,  with  no  change  in  the  situation.  '  By 
Jove!  she's  not  going,'  said  I.  k  What  an  oppor 
tunity  !  Everybody  either  in  bed  or  on  the  top  of 
a  distant  hill.  I  '11, —  I've  a  good  mind  to  pork 
up  and  show  her  her  portrait !  And  if  she  remains 
where  she  is  until  I  've  counted  ten,  by  Jove!  I  '11 
go  —  and  —  yes,  1 11  go  and  speak  to  her,  whatever 
happens.  One,  two,  three,  four,  five,  six,  seven, 
eight,  nine,  ten.  Here  goes!' 

"As  I  finished  counting,  I  arose  from  mv  place 
in  the  corner  as  quietly  as  possible,  took  the  sketch 
in  my  hand,  and  walked  in  an  easy,  nonchalant 
manner  toward  the  blushing  maiden,  who  ap 
peared  to  be  so  unconsciously  beholding  the  crim 
son  sunset. 

"  My  hat  was  off  a  long  way  before  I  reached 
her  proximity;  and  then,  after  swallowing  rapidly 
several  times,  to  enable  me  to  do  what  I  had  never 
done  in  mv  life  before,  I  spoke  to  the  lovely  crea 
ture  without  being  properly  presented. 

"  k  I  trust  you  will  pardon  my  speaking  without 
introduction,  for  I  confess  I  was  unable  to  resist 
taking  a  sketch  of  your  face;  and  here  it  is  in  my 
hands  to  prove  what  I  say.' 


A  FASHIONABLE  SUFFERER.          173 

"'Oh,  not  at  all,  sir,'  replied  the  young  girl, 
frightened  at  the  scene  she  had  so  rashly  provoked. 

"•'Will  you  be  pleased  to  look  at  it?'  I  con 
tinued,  '  and  see  if  it  is  like  ?  ' 

"  'Oh,  thanks  !  I  knew  —  I  think  I  should  rec 
ognize  it  anywhere.  You  have  flattered  me,  sir ! ' 

"'  '  I  don't  think  1  have.  I  was  attracted  by  your 
marvelous  resemblance  to  a  dear  friend  of  mine. 
Will  you  honor  me  by  accepting  the  sketch?  ' 

"  '  Oh,  thanks,  sir  !  If  you  please  I  'd  like  to 
send  it  home.' 

'"•  But  I  don't  want  you  to  send  it  home.  I  wish 
you  to  keep  it/ 

"kl  will,  then,  and  hang  it  iu  my  dormitory! ' 

" '  Ah,  you  are  a  school-girl,  are  you  ?  ' 

" '  Yes.  I  go  to  boarding-school ;  but  this  is  my 
last  term.' 

"  'And  then'-  — said  I. 

"  k  Then  '  —  said  she. 

"  '  And  then  —  what,  please  ?  '  I  persisted. 

"  '  I  shall  "  come  out,"  I  suppose.' 

"'Are  you  anxious  to  "come  out,"  as  you  call 
it?' 

"  She  looked  at  me  with  a  knowing  smile,  and 
gave  two  or  three  quick  nods  of  assent.  I  ven 
tured  to  remark,  — 

"  "  When  you  d'>  "  come  out,"  you  '11  have  to  be 
awfully  "  proper." 

"'I  know  it;  and  that  is  why  I  am  having  such 
a  good  time  now.' 


174  A    FASHIONABLE   SUFFERER. 

"  '  You  an;  certainly  having  everything  your  o\vn 
way  up  here,  Avith  some  members  of  your  party.' 

"  She  eyed  me  askance  for  a  moment,  and  while 
a  deep  color  mantled  her  peachy  cheek,  replied, 
'  Oh,  he  "s  nothing  ! ' 

"'  Won't  you  take  a  bit  of  a  walk  with  me?1 
said  I,  beseechingly. 

"  •  1  told  than  1  was  going  to  take  a  nap,'  she 
answered. 

"  '  No  matter,'  cried  I,  '  tJu't/  "re  gone,  and  you 
are  far  from  sleepy.  Will  you,  please?' 

"'Only  once  or  twice,  then,  up  and  down  the 
piazza,'  she  replied,  as  she  straightened  up  from 
her  leaning  position  on  the  balustrade,  and  wrapped 
her  mantilla  about  her  rounded  shoulders. 

"k  I'nr  very  grateful  for  "once  or  twice." 

"So  we  started  on  our  tramp.  That  'once  or 
twice '  was  prolonged  to  hundreds  and  thousands. 
I  found  her  as  communicative  as  a  little  parrot. 
She  imparted  to  me  lots  of  family  history  ;  how 
this  poor  student  had  actually  'offered  himself,' 
and  how  she  was  only  liaving  a  harmless  flirtation 
with  him  —  'nothing  more;'  that  she  couldn't 
think  of  '  marrying  him,'  or  anybody,  for  three  or 
four  years  at  least,  and  that  she  really  loved  her 
cousin  Joe  better  than  all  the  world. 

kw '  Could  n't  you  ever  love  anybody  but  cousin 
Joe?' 

"'I  might  play  /o>v,  but  T  don't  think  I  could 
ever  love  that  kind  where  you  cry,  and  have  to  go 


A    FASHIONABLE    SUFFERER. 


175 


and  tell  your  mother  all  about  it,'  she  answered, 
with  an  innocent  expression  on  her  pretty  face. 

kk  '  Could  you  almost  love  anybody  besides  cousin 
Joe  ?  ' 

kk '  Perhaps  I  might,  a  very  little  "almost,"'  said 
she,  with  a  quizzical,  coquettish  expression  which 
revealed  the  whole  case  to  me  ;  so  I  added,— 


"  k  I  don't  want  you  to  forget  me.' 

"• k  I  never  shall,"  she  whispered. 

"  •  I  never  can  yon,''  I  murmured,  with  deep  feel 
ing. 

"'Nonsense!  When  you  bid  good-by,  you  II 
never  think  of  me  again!' 

"  k  When  1  leave  you,  it  will  be  with  painful 
emotions.' 


176  A   FASHIONABLE   SUFFERER. 

"  '  That  's  splendid,'  said  she. 

"  '  When  I  go  back  to  school,  your  sketch  will 
always  bring  back  the  pleasantest  memories.  1  "11 
plague  the  girls  awfully.' 

" '  Thank  you,  very  much  !  I  would  n't  mind  a 
little  of  that  sort  of  tiling.' 

"'I  knowl  oughtn't  to  talk  with  you  in  this 
way,'  she  said,  with  an  expression  of  apparent  sad 
ness. 

u'If  you  do  nothing  worse  than  this,  you  will 
surely  go  to  heaven.' 

"  '  It  seems  as  if  everything  1  want  to  do  is  al 
ways  wrong  I ' 

u  k  Why,  my  little  friend,  your  conscience  is  as 
tender  as  all  the  other  angels' !  You  are  doing 
nothing  wrong  —  and  won't  you  give  me  some 
thing  to  remember  this  afternoon  by  .' ' 

"  *  What  con.  you  want.' 

"•'Oh,  your  glove,  that  bit  of  silk  there  —  any 
little  "snip"  that  I  can  keep.1 

"  "  You  don't  really  want  that !  ' 

"  *  Indeed,  I  do."* 

"  '  How  much?  ' 

"  '  Ever  and  ever  so  — 

" '  Well !   I  really  think  you  deserve  some  return 
for  your  —  my  likeness,  and  I  '11  just  give  you  this 
bow  here,   if  you  want  it    u  ever  and  ever  so," 
she   rattled  on  thus  while  she  was  detaching  the 
scrap  of  ribbon  from  her  dress. 

"  •  Allow  me  to  help  you  ! '  said  I. 


A   FASHIONABLE   SUFFERER.  177 

"  'No!  thanks  !  I  can  do  it  perfectly  well  myself; 
there — take  it'  —  (jit  this  moment  her  party  ap 
peared  returning  from  their  excursion)  —  quick  — 
quick.  Oh,  dear!  There  they  all  are,  returning 
from  their  walk,  and  1  have  n't  taken  a  nap  after  all  : 
and  they  see  me,  and  I  've  lold  a  lie,  and  there  Ml 
he  a  pretty  ro\v.  Run  away  as  quickly  as  you  can. 
\\'hat  can  I  say?  How  shall  I  explain?'  \Vhile 
she  was  giving  vent  to  these  expressions  1  stood 
silently  by  her  side,  holding  the  ribbon  in  my  lin 
gers  and  awaiting  the  impending  shock. 

••  MMie  party  had  indeed  returned.  MMie  foremost 
one  had  already  appeared  at  the  door  which  opened 
on  the  piaz/a,  and  saw  me  plainly  receive  from  her 
tiny  hands  the  silken  memento.  This  individual 
was  the  love-sick  student.  While  the  rest  of  her 
party  crowded  about  Katharine,  this  young  gentle 
man  walked  up  to  where  I  was  standing  and  with 
anything  but  a  saintly  expression  of  countenance 

'••I  demand  that  you  give  up  to  me  the  rilibon 
which  that  young  lady  just;  gave  you  !  ' 

'"'  Who  are  you — and  by  what  authority  do  you 
make  such  an  extraordinary  request?'  I  replied. 

*•  •  I  am  that  young  lady's  friend,  and  tlutt  is 
niv  authority,"  said  he,  with  a  face  blanched  with 
anger. 

'••I  am  that  young  lady's  friend  also,  and  that  is 
niv  authority  for  refusing  your  impudent  demand. 

k>  Meanwhile,  Katharine's  party  had  retired  with 
12 


178          A  FASHIONABLE  SUFFERER. 

her  into  the  hotel  —  evidently  in  a  troubled  and 
disorganized  condition,  which  left  the  young  stu 
dent  and  myself  alone  together. 

u  "  You  had  no  right,  sir,  to  take  advantage  of  the 
absence  of  her  protectors,  and  accost  that  young 
lady  without  presentation  ,  and  if  you  communi 
cate  with  her  in  any  way  again.,  you  will  have  to 
account  personally  to  me  for  your  ungentlemanly 
conduct.' 

""My  young  friend,'  said  I.  'I  admire,  your 
spirit  and  all  that,  but  I  can  assure  you  that  your 
charming  friend  has  been  in  no  \vay  compromised 
by  any  act  of  mine  ;  and  I  am  proud  to  say  that 
we  are  the  very  best  of  friends.1 

"  k  You  are  a  rascal,'  said  he  :  'and  I'll  teach  you 
better  manners  !  Take  that,  for  your  artistic  im 
pudence  !'  \Yith  this  ejaculation  he  struck  at  me 
with  his  list.  J  easily  eluded  the  blow,  however, 
and  catching  him  by  the  throat  pinned  him  against 
one  of  the  pillars  of  the  pia/.za. 

"'Ah!  my  hoy;  do  you  know  that  I  can  choke 
you  to  death,  and  throw  your  body  over  the  cliffs, 
and  trill  do  so,  too,  if  you  don't  listen  to  reason 
and  jay  explanation.'  Holding  him  there,  I  then 
went  on  :  'I  don't  Avant  your  girl,  nor  have,  I 
done  anything  to  call  forth  all  this  rumpus.  I 
mi-rely  showed  your  friend  the  little  likeness  which 
I  had  drawn  of  her,  and  then  naturally  fell  into  an 
agreeable  conversation  about  it,  which,  by  IHT  sweet 
condesceiisioji  and  my  own  importunity,  has  lasted 


A    FASHIONABLE    SUFFERER. 


179 


as  long  as  it  did.  I  can  assure  you  that  she  has 
proved  herself  the  most  delightful  of  young  ladies; 
that  her  manners  are  only  equaled  by  her  beauty, 
and  that,  in  short,  all  the  fol-de-rol  which  you  are 
making  about  this  little  adventure  is  pure  nonsense. 
Finally,  I  beg  your  pardon,  sir,  and  the  pardon  of 
all  your  party,  and  the  young  lady's  pardon  too, 


if  1  have  done  the  least  thing  to  offend  any  of  them 
by  my  actions  this  afternoon.' 

'•During  this  long  explanation  1  held  the  love 
sick  student  firmly  braced  back  against  the  post, 
but  gradually  eased  the  grip  on  his  neck,  as  I  ap 
proached  the  conclusion  of  my  harangue.  This  af 
forded  him  great  relief,  and  permitted  him  at  last 


180  A    FASHIONABLE    SUFFERER. 

to  ejaculate  :  '  T  see  —  that  —  I  was  —mistaken,  sir, 
and  I  ac-cept  your  apology  —  and  will  go  and  make' 
it  all  right  with  my  lady-friend.  Thank  yon/  he 
added,  as  I  let  go  his  throat  and  offered  him  a 
cigar.  •  He  didn't  accept  it,  however,  but  vanished 
inside  the  hotel,  leaving  me  in  possession  of  the 
iield  and  the  little  ribbon,  which  was  well  worth 
all  the  effort  I  had  put  forth  to  obtain  it. 

'•  Late  that  night,  as  1  descended  the  main  stair 
way,  I  heard,  far  above  me  in  the  darkness,  a  sweet 
voice  which  whispered,  'Good-night  and  good-by, 
forever,'  1  looked  up  in  the  black  air,  but  could 
see  nobody  :  —  and  this  was  the  end  of  the  story  of 
k  The  Lead  Pencil.'  ' 

"  During  the  relation  of  this  youthful  episode 
Miss  Edith  Grey  looked  steadilv  up  into  my  face, 
while  a  ruddy  cheek  told  plainly  that  she  had  fol 
lowed  with  interest  every  word  of  the  narration. 

"That  night  as  we  both  sat  together  in 'the  little 
inn  at  Martignv.  while  the  gloaming  stole  silently 
over  the  vale,  I  confess  to  a  deep  feeling  of  con 
tentment  and  ddight,  such  as  had  seldom  fallen  to 
my  lot  before. 

kw  'Yon  were  verv  naughty  to  uearrv  on"  so  with 
the  little  lassie,'  said  Miss  (Jrey,  at  last. 

'•'It  was  my  pencil  that  did  it  —  not  I.' 

"'Aren't  you  sorry  that  your  pencil  acted  so 
naughty  ? ' 

"  '  I  m  very  sorry  that  I  'm  not  sorry  ;  but  I  'in 
not !  ' 


A   FASHIONABLE    SUFFERER.  181 

"  '  You  could  n't  surely  blame  the  lover  for  his 
indignation  at  your  conduct!  ' 

"•  "Not  a  bit ;    I  admired  his  pluck/ 

"'And  you  think  you  were  very  bold  and  wicked 
in  accosting  the  little  tiling  without  an  introduc 
tion  ;  don't  von  ?  ' 

"'I  suppose  I  must  have  been;  but  I'll  never 
do  it  again  ! 

"•  '  You  were  a  very  bad  boy  :  but,  to  be  frank 
•with  von,  I  believe  I  should  have  done  ihe  same 
thini;1,  were  I  in  \our  place/ 

.' 

"'Had  you  been  in  the  voung  girl's  place,  1 
should  never  have  had  the  courage  to  do  what.  I 
did.' 

"'Why,    I  thought  yon  were  very  courageous!' 

"•  '  Before  angels!    I  never  am.' 

"  k  You  must  n't  Hatter  me,  for  that  "s  not  nice! " 

u  "  Lead  me  not  into  temptation,  then,'  said  I. 
"And  now  we '11  have  //<>t/r  lit  tie  story,  if  you  please.' 

kk  '  It  's  getting  too  late  for  that,  1  see,  — almost 
six  o'clock.  I  fear  we  must  defer  it  until  we  all 
meet  in  Tain  worth.' 

twk()  Miserie!  I'm  truly  disappointed,'  said  I. 
crestfallen,  '  for  I  'in  a  first-rate  listener!  ' 

"•'Then  yon  would  make  a  good  father  confessor,' 
she  archlv  added. 

'•  '  To  be  the  depository  of  your  coid'ession,  I  d 
take  orders  this  very  minute  ! 

u'  I  would  n't  like  you  to  be  a  priest,  though  ! 

"•  *  Why  ?     Not  long  enough  to  hear  your  story  ? 


182         A  FASHIONABLE  SUFFERER. 

"  '  A  woman's  confession  is  a  tale  of  weakness, 
you  know ! ' 

" '  And  of  love  ?  Are  they  not  equivalent 
terms  ?  ' 

"  '  Perhaps  so  !  It  is  a  wretched  state,  that  of  a 
mortal  who  has  a  secret  which  he  can't  impart ! ' 

"'Or  she  can't  impart,' said  I.  'They  tell  me 
that  a  woman's  secret  burns  to  gain  utterance.  She 
must  tell  it  to  somebody.' 

"  '  I  '11  tell  it  all  to  you,  in  Tamworth,'  said  she, 
'  sonic  day.' 

"'If  I  remain  much  longer,  I'll  tell  all  my  se 
cret  to  i/on  here  in  this  very  inn,'  replied  I,  with  ex 
citement. 

"'The  hours  have  surely  sped  rapidly  away  to 
day,'  she  seemed  to  think  aloud. 

"'  Yes.  Ilmv  swiftly  falls  the  foot  of  Time 
which  only  treads  on  flowers,"  quoting  the  old  trite 
line. 

"  '  Dear  me,  we  all  go  back  to  England  to-mor 
row  by  the  diligence,'  said  Miss  Edith  Orey,  with  a 
sigh. 

"  '  Ah,  how  unfortunate  !      At  what  o'clock  ?  ' 

"  '  Eleven.  I   believe." 

"'I  shall  certainly  be  here  to  see  you  off  ;  and 
you  will  pardon  me,  I  know,.'  said  I,  quietly,  '  if  I 
confess  how  greatly  I  regret  your  departure.  This 
day  has  been  to  me  a  day  of  heavenly  peace.' 

"  '  Do  you,  indeed,  regret  our  going?  Well,  I 
have  no  hesitation  to  acknowledge  that  the  agree 


A  FASHIONABLE  SUFFERER.          18o 

able  events  clustering'  about  our  newly-made  ac 
quaintance  and  this  little  quiet  evening  at  Mar- 
tigny  make  it  equally  sad  for  me  to  say  goocl-by.' 
Here  the  red  sun  sank  behind  the  snow-capped 
peaks.  We  took  each  other's  hands  and  bade  fare 
well,  and  then  farewell  again,  and  yet  another 
farewell  before  I  realized  what  1  was  doing,  or 
could  tear  myself  from  her  dear  presence.  1  re 
turned  at  last  to  my  hotel  with  a  throbbing  heart, 
and,  if  I  must  confess  it,  a  tearful  eye. 

"  The  next  morning  I  hastened  to  see  the  party 
off.  b  Mine  host,'  at  the  inn,  told  me  that  the  last 
night's  mail  had  brought  dreadful  news  to  the  Kng- 
lish  party.  The  father  of  one  of  the  young  ladies 
had  suddenly  died,  and  the  whole  company  had 
rushed  away  back  over  the  Tcte-Xoir  to  Cha- 
mounix.  and  so  on  as  rapidly  as  possible  toward 
England. 

"  Here  I  was  then,  suddenly  separated  by  a  cruel 
fate  from  one  in  whom  I  had  learned  to  confide, 
and  to  whom  1  was  just  about  to  open  my  heart; 
from  one  also  with  whom  1  felt  perfectly  en  ra/>- 
port*  and  who  was  fast  growing  to  be  a  dear  object 
of  my  regard.  What  was  T  to  do?  Where  was  I 
to  go?  In  this  case  there  was  no  deceit,  no  heart- 
lessness  ;  our  friendship  was  healthy  and  rational  : 
our  regard  mutual  and  honest,  and  I  was  forced  to 
confess  at  last  that  there  were,  indeed  (after  all 
my  sad  experience  to  the  contrary),  true-hearted 
women  in  the  world.  1  had  no  other  alternative, 


184          A  FASHIONABLE  SUFFERER. 

however,  but  to  follow  out  my  original  plan  of 
travel,  and  hope  for  better  things.  So  1  and  my 
companion  went  to  Vevay  and  Lauterbrunnen  ; 
thence  walking  over  the  liernese  Alps  we  reached 
at  last  the  pretty  city  of  Lucerne.  From  this 
point  we  spent  a  night  on  the  "  Kighi  ;  '  and  in  the 
evening,  at  the  miniature  inn  on  the  summit,  I 
spied,  among  the  group'of  guides  who  were  talking 
together,  the  vcrv  courier  who  had  been  with  my 
dear  English  friends  through  Switzerland,  and 
whom  1  remembered  was  conversing  with  Miss 
(Jrey  on  the  occasion  of  mv  first  visit  to  her  hotel. 
It  was  the  work  of  but  a  moment  for  mutual  recog 
nition,  and  from  him  1  heard  most  grateful  news 
concerning  the  object  of  my  solicitude.  "Fraiit// 
described  to  me  her  precipitate  departure,  and  the 
terrible  state  of  sorrow  into  which  the  sad  news 
had  plunged  the  whole  party. 

"  lie  showed  me  a  watch  and  several  other  trink 
ets  which  the  young  ladies  had  given  him  when  he- 
left  their  service,  and  told  me,  what  I  pri/ed  (In 
most  to  hea'r,  that  i  mademoiselle,  the  one  with  the 
large  mild  eves,  monsieur,  had  told  him  that,  if  he 
ever  saw  monsieur,  to  explain  to  him  the  dreadful 
circumstances  of  their  sudden  departure,  and  also 
to  bid  him  good-by  for  her  and  «n  revolt'.'' 

''And  this  was  all  the  comfort  I  got,  and  this  is 
all  the  comfort  I  've  had  these  many  weary  months 
which  have  passed  awav  since  the  precious  idvl  at 
Martigny  was  so  rudely  broken  up ;  yet  in  my 


A    FASHIONABLE    SUFFERER.  185 

dreams  and  waking  moments,  I  am  comforted  by 
that  little  word  '  Toujours,'  'Toujours,'  whichever 
sounds  in  my  memory. 

"One  night,  in  Paris,  as  I  reached  my  apart 
ments,  I  found,  lying  on  my  table,  this  telegram  : 

"  '  T.YMWOKTH,  ENCJLAND,  November  19,  187  — 
"  'We  all  start  for  America  by  the  Cunarder  of 
the  21st,  ToiMorus.' 

k'  •  They  have  already  gone,'  said  I,  '  for  to-night 
is  the  22d  of  November.'  I  could  bear  the  suspense 
no  longer,  and  as  soon  as  I  could  arrange  my  affairs 
I  felt  impelled,  as  if  by  some  hidden  influence,  to 
follow  them.  And  I  h<t>'e  followed  them,  sought 
them  in  all  the  principal  cities  of  this  great  Union, 
out  to  Colorado  and  down  to  Florida;  and  now 
here  I  am  in  this  checker-board  city,  so  friendless, 
so  forlorn,  so  very,  very  ill. 

"•  Heaven  be  praised  for  one  crumb  of  comfort 
which  has  just  this  moment  arrived  to  illumine  my 
otherwise  sunless  lot.  This  little  letter  has  fol 
lowed  me  from  place  to  place,  and,  by  the  same 
relentless  fate  which  has  pursued  me  so  long,  has 
never  quite  reached  me,  until  it  finds  me  ill  and 
despairing.  Will  it  prove  mere  irony,  a  mockery  of 
words,  and,  like  Moses  of  old,  shall  I  onlv  behold 
the  land  of  promise,  and  be  deprived  the  happiness 
of  crossing  a  Jordan  to  possess  it? 


186 


A  FASHIONABLE  SUFFERER. 


"  '  NEW  YOKK,  ./«///  17, -. 

"  '  We  have  just  heard  you  arc  in  this  country, 
as  AVC  arc  about  to  reembark  for  England.  Do 
come  back  to  Tamworth,  and  liear  the  little  adven 
ture  1  promised  to  tell  you  in  confidence,  in  the 
vale  of  JNlartigny.  ToiMOUiis.' 

"If  tliere  is  strength  enough  remaining  I  start 
to-night,  but "  — 


When  Mr.  Douce  had  finished  reading,  the  effect 
produced  upon  his  listeners  was  evidently  not  alto 
gether  favorable. 

;-  I  was  hoping,"  said  Ilildegarde,  "that  that 
poor  fellow  was  at  last  to  be  happy." 

"Remember,"  said  Mr.  Douce,  u  that  this  is  a 
true  story,  not  a  romance." 

"  I   know  it,"  replied  Ilildegarde  ;  "but  is  there 


A   FASHIONABLE    SUFFERER.  187 

nobody  happy,  then ?  Good  gracious!  I  was  flat 
tering  myself  that  /was  the  only  wretched  creature 
in  this  world.  Grief  is  getting  to  be  altogether 
too  common  nowadays." 

"  Happy,"  answered  Mr.  Douce,  "  of  course 
(here  are  creatures  who  are  happy:  there  are  the 
May-bugs,  for  instance.'' 

Mr.  Worthington  remarked  "that  this  poor  gen 
tleman  did  have  one  cruml)  of  comfort  at  last." 

"•A  pretty  dry  crumb,  though,  and  one  which 
never  sustained  him  sufficiently  to  get  over  to  Eng 
land  to  his  girl,"  said  Lawrence. 

"There  is  always  something  which  steps  in  just 
as  one  is  about  to  grasp  what  one  lias  lieen  aiming 
at  all  of  one's  life,  and  dashes  it  away,"  sighed 
Miss  Lucv. 

"•.lust  hear  that  youngster!  One  Mould  think 
she  had  met  with  some  great  disappointment.'' 

tk  Well,  I  don't  believe,"  continued  Miss  Lucy, 
"there  is  anybody  living  who  lias  n't  suffered  in 
this  wav,  young  or  old." 

"  That  's  what  makes  some,  of  our  characters  so 
lovelv.  my  dear,"  replied  Ladv  Angela. 

"  It's  inscrutable  to  me,"  said  Mr.  D^mce,  "how 
disappointments  can  possibly  improve  a  body's 
character.  I  hate  them  now  as  heartily  as  ever  I 
did  when  I  was  in  petticoats,  and  I  believe  if  I  had 
never  had  any,  my  temper  would  have  remained  as 
angelic  as  it  is.'' 

"  Yes,  just  about,"  said  Angela,  laughing. 


188          A  FASHIONABLE  SUFFERER. 

u  I  'm  sorry  for  the  poor  fellow,  too  ; "  said  Miss 
Brown,  u  for  somehow  I  can't  get  him  out  of  my 
mind.  I  don't  see  why  Edith  Grey  didn't  find 
him,  and  he  her,  and  they  both  become  happy 
'like  sensible  people.' ' 

"And  get  married,"  said  Hildegarde. 

"•  Yes,  and  get  married,"  said  Miss  Brown. 

"  And  live  in  England  in  fine  style." 

u  Yes,  and  —  but  why  did  n't  they,  do  you 
think?" 

"•  Because,"  said  Mr.  Douce,  u  this  is  a  true  story 
and  not  a  romance,  and  that 's  why." 


CHAPTER  V. 

LECTURK    IN    I'ARADISK    HALL. 

rl"HK  little  circle  of  friends  in  Paradise  was  inter 
ested  in  regard  to  the  wav  in  which  Mr.  Cynicus 
Douce  proposed  to  treat  the  subject  oi'  his  lecture. 
Opinion  was  about  equally  divided,  —  some  holding 
that  he  would  surely  discover  a  humorous  side  to 
it;  and  the  other,  that  he  would  not.  As  Mr. 
Douce  possessed  a  mind  in  which  the  sublime  and 
the  ridiculous  were  in  close  juxtaposition,  tin; 
chances  for  either  view  were  about  equal. 

A  pleasant  feature  of  life  in  the  country  is,  that 
the  miniature  community  becomes  excited  over 
every  subject,  large  or  small,  which  for  the  moment 
happens  to  occupy  its  attention.  Whatever  the 
ripple  may  be,  temporary  enthusiasm  prevails  un 
til  something  fresher  takes  its  place.  So  it  was  in 
this  instance. 

"Our  Dual  Individualities,"  said  little  Paradise; 
"  what  on  earth  is  the  meaning  of  that?  '' 

The  news  had  even  reached  the  country  store  ; 
and  one  old  farmer  remarked  that  he  heard  "  Squire, 
Douce  was  going  to  speak  '  to  the  Hall '  and  show 


190          A  FASHIONABLE  SUFFERER. 

how  he  and  the  rest  of  the  boarders  had  another 
body  inside  of  "em,"  and  "  for  his  part  he  believed 
they  had,  for  the  way  they  acted  the  fourth  'July, 
looked  a  leetle  as  if  they  all  saw  double." 

The  young  people  perceived  at  once  that  the 
topic  was  too  dry  for  them,  and  determined  to 
keep  away  from  the  Mall  on  Wednesday  night. 

Mr.  Douce  himself  Avas  quite  perplexed  as  to  his 
best  method  of  procedure.  He  did  not  mean  to 
"  back  out,"  after  promising  to  write  his  views  on 
the  subject  ;  but  the  truth  was,  he  had  no  views  at 
all  upon  it.  Still,  to  carry  out  his  purpose,  it  was 
imperative  to  have  some  sort  of  theory  on  which 
to  start  his  lecture.  He  therefore  went  out  into  a. 
neighboring  lot,  several  evenings  before  the  one 
appointed,  in  order  to  ruminate  upon  the  matter 
and  endeavor,  if  possible,  to  lay  out  a  train  of 
thought  which  he  could  carry  to  a  logical  conclu 
sion. 

lie  found  this  no  easy  task,  and  as  the  time  ap 
proached  he  became  more  and  more  nervous  in  his 
action  and  appearance.  lie  was  forced  to  absent 
himself  from  the  pleasant  coterie  assembled  on  the 
piazza,  in  order  to  complete  his  herculean  labor, 
and  he  subjected  himself  to  all  manner  of  good- 
natured  jokes  as  he  flew  from  his  writing  to  his 
meals,  and  from  his  meals  to  his  writing  again. 

u  Heavens  !"  said  his  friends  on  the  hill,  u  how 
relieved  we  shall  all  be  when  Cynicus  has  delivered 
himself  of  that  horrid  lecture." 


A  FASHIONABLE  SUFFERER.         191 

"  And  delivered  us  of  it  as  well,"  said  his  friend 
Lawrence,  with  a  mischievous  smile. 

"  I  trust,"  remarked  Lady  Angela,  good  -  «a- 
turedry,  •"  that  our  friend  will  never  attempt  such  a 
subject  again.  He  will  surely  die  in  the  effort,  for 
thinking  always  tells  upon  him  fearfully." 

u  We  must  applaud  him  to  the  echo,  even  if  he- 
fails,"  said  the  kind-hearted  Amelia. 

"•  And  throw  flowers  at  him,  in  any  event  —  but 
there  he  is/'  said  Miss  Brown,  as  the  gentleman  in 
question  passed  over  the  lawn  with  a  large  roll  of 
papers  under  his  arm.  ''How  far  have  you  got, 
Mr.  Philosopher?" 

"  You  see  just  how  far,"  replied  Mr.  Douce, 
laughing,  as  lie  came  to  a  sudden  stand-still,  and 
wiped  his  brow.  k-  If  I  told  you  any  more,  you 
would  never  come  to  hear  me." 

u  Will  your  lecture  be  k  illustrated  ?  '  ' 

""  I  may  put  in  several  cuts  for  some  of  my 
friends  ?  "  replied  Cynicus,  as  he  went  on  his  way 
rejoicing. 

The  evening  came  and    Mr.   Douce   was  at  his 

O 

post  in  white  cravat.  The  heat  was  oppressive, 
but  the  friendly  audience  in  front  of  him  did  not 
seem  to  mind  it,  for  they  fanned  themselves  into 
a  lower  temperature  and  greeted  each  other  with 
catching  good-humor.  There  is  a  peculiar  sort  of 
delight  which  steals  over  one  as  he  seats  himself 
in  his  allotted  place  in  a  public  hall,  and  watches 


192 


A    FASHIONABLE    SUFFERER. 


his  friends  as  they  trip  past  him,  singly  or  in  coup 
les,  to  their  respective  places.  The.  little  nods  and 
smiles  and  ecstatic  recognitions  going  on  all  about 
produce  a  unique  species  of  exaltation  which  no 
other  joy  quite  resembles.  And  what  is  so  delight 
ful  about  it  is,  that  "young  men  and  maidens,  old 
men  and  children,"  are  equally  affected  by  the  same 
pleasing  emot  ion. 

Mr.  Douce  appeared  well  in  evening  dress, 
though  pale,  and  somewhat  ill  at  ease.  Alter 
spreading  out  his  MS.  on  the  desk  and  sipping 
from  a  tumbler  of  water,  he  thus  began  :  — 

ADIKS  AND  (JHNTLK.MKN,  —  I 
trust  you  will  bear  with  me 
this  evening  while  1  present  a 
few  remarks  on  the  subject  of 
'  <  )ur  1  )ual  Individuality.' 

"  I  claim  to  be  neither  phil 
osopher  noi'  metaphysician, 
and  therefore  I  offer  only  prac 
tical  observations,  suggested 
from  the  stand-point  of  com 
mon,  every-day  thought. 

"You  will  acquit  me  of  a  desire  to  usurp  either 
the  place  or  the  principles  of  any  school  of  ethics, 
because  you  are  fully  aware  that  I  appear  here  sim 
ply  in  pursuance  of  a  promise  which  I  hastily  made 
under  the  genial  influence  of  friendly  hospitality, 
and  from  no  aspiring  ambition  of  my  own.  (Here 
he  sips  the  water  again.) 


A  FASHIONABLE  SUFFERER.         193 

"  It  is  well,  perhaps,  that  we  should  occasionally 
pause  in  our  humdrum,  every  -  day  existence  and 
ponder  over  subjects  which,  though  actually  beyond 
our  reach,  are  constantly  exerting  a  mysterious  in 
fluence  upon  our  lives.  Such  pauses,  even  if  they 
settle  nothing,  have  a  tendency  to  divert  the  mind 
into  more  serious  channels  than  it  is  wont  to  pur 
sue,  and,  therefore,  to  strengthen  its  natural  fibre. 

"  I  will  only  add,  that  in  consenting  to  be  pres 
ent  this  evening,  you  have  the  proud  satisfaction  of 
adding  to  the  wasted  exchequer  of  the  '  Paradise 
Library  Fund/  an  object  so  dear  to  each  one  of  our 
hearts.  (Applause.)  Ahem  !  Questions  concern 
ing  the  mysteries  of  mind  and  matter,  and  their 
subtle  relations  to  each  other,  are  unusually  attract 
ive  to  the  human  intellect.  The  laws  of  chance  and 
causation  have  tried  its  mettle,  while  the  '  Theistic 
Theory  '  and  the  doctrine  of  *  Immanent  Finality  ' 
have  stirred  its  deepest  philosophical  powers.  I 
have  wondered  how  it  would  affect  the  world  if  it 
could  actually  decide  any  one  of  these  important 
questions.  For  instance,  if  it  could  both  mathe 
matically  and  scientifically  demonstrate  that  there 
was  either  something  or  nothing  left  to  us  of  our 
ancient  creeds  besides  the  ego-consciousness.  Or  if 
we  had  finally  proved,  either  that  molecules  moved 
themselves,  or  that  there  was  an  active,  intelligent 
force  behind  them,  pushing  them  on,  what  effect 
would  the  settlement  of  these  questions  have  upon 
the  welfare  of  the  world  '' 

13 


194         A  FASHIONABLE  SUFFERER. 

"  The  philosophic  mind  loves  to  burrow  among 
the  roots  of  peradventure  and  the  tangled  fibres 
of  uncertainty.  It  revels  in  the  clouds  of  dust 
raised  by  its  own  digging ;  and  it  does  not  seem  to 
matter  so  much  that  anything  is  logically  proved, 
as  it  does  that  there  is  rich  territory  before  it 
into  which  it  may  continue  to  delve.  But  this  is 
only  in  conformity  with  a  general  law ;  for  the 
mind,  like  the  body,  is  at  its  best  when  actively 
employed. 

"  Our  Dual  Individuality  is  the  subject  of  my 
paper  this  evening.  Although  this  theme  has  a 
smack  of  the  metaphysical  and  unintelligible  about 
it,  it  still  will  commend  itself  as  a  very  common 
and  practical  fact.  And  while  I  am  free  to  con 
fess  that  it  deals  with  matters  about  which  but  lit 
tle  is  known, —  a  feature,  however,  which  must 
inhere,  of  necessity,  to  all  intellectual  discussions, 
—  it  still  possesses  the  element  of  attractiveness, 
for  it  pertains  to  our  actual  daily  experience,  — 
which  we  talk  about  as  if  we  knew  whereof  we 
speak,  which  is  pretty  nearly  as  comforting  as  if 
we  did. 

u  Every  one  is  aware  that  consciousness  is  that 
attribute  of  our  intellectual  natures  which  allows 
us  to  perceive  what  passes  in  our  own  minds.  I 
must  not  stop  very  long  here  for  fear  that  some 
body  might  ask,  what  right  any  one  has  to  call  that 
a  mind  —  as  we  understand  the  meaning  of  that 
word  —  in  which  our  perception  tells  us  things  are 


A  FASHIONABLE  SUFFERER.          195 

passing  :  if  the  mind  does  not  perceive  this  passage, 
luit  leaves  the  perception  to  perform  that  office  ! 
If  this  be  true,  I  don't  see  the  necessity  of  having 
a  mind  at  all,  and  I  should  rank  consciousness,  or 
perception,  far  above  it  as  the  intellectual  reser 
voir,  and  degrade  the  mind  to  a  position  even  below 
that  of  the  liver  or  the  spleen:  for  tJicij  always 
know  when  anything  is  passing  through  them.  But 
I  hurry  on  to  say  that,  having  shown  the  high  po 
sition  occupied  bv  our  consciousness,  I  would  re 
spectfully  make  this  inquiry:  that  if  every  healthy 
individual  has  consciousness,  what  is  there  to  pre 
vent  his  having  two,  or  even  more,  consciousnesses? 
No  argument  can  be  advanced  to  prove  that  there 
is  anything  to  prevent  it  ;  in  fact  he  has  two. 
Proof  of  this  is  both  self-evident  and  plentiful. 
Before  passing  to  this,  however,  I  pause  for  an  in 
stant  to  indulge  in  a  little  hyperbole  on  these  phe 
nomena  within  us. 

"  Two  wonderful  self-consciousnesses  in  the  same 
body  !  One  perfect  entity  working,  at  one  time  in 
accordance  with  another  perfect  entity  ;  then  again 
at  variance  with  it!  One  great  soul-judge  sum 
moning  another  great  soul-judge  before  a  court  of 
last  appeal  with  no  name!  .V  man  calling  himself 
before  himself  for  judgment  pronounced  by  himself 
on  himself!  One  good  second  thought  condemn 
ing  us  for  the  commission  of  crime  suggested  by 
one  first  bad  thought!  One  bad  iirst  intention 
withstanding  to  the  death  a  single  good  intention, 


196  A   FASHIONABLE    SUFFERER. 

interposed  by  one  good  second  thought !  This 
entity  in  a  bad  man  is  a  devil !  In  a  good  one,  an 
angel  I  But  to  resume  :  — 

"  And  God  said,  in  the  book  of  Genesis,  '  Come, 
let  us  make  man,'  etc.  *•  Let  MS.'  It  seems  by  this 
expression  as  though  even  Deity  itself  possessed  a 
dual  consciousness  ;  because  I  take  it  that  the  word 
-God'  means  "  God,  the  Creator,'  and  has  no  refer 
ence  to  the  Trinity. 

"  Shakespeare  makes  Laertes  tell  his  sister 
Ophelia,  when  speaking  of  Hamlet's  love  for  her, 
'  If  with  too  credent  ear  you  list  his  songs '  -— '  Fear 
it,  Ophelia,  fear  it,  my  dear  sister  ;  and  keep  you 
in  the  rear  of  your  affection^  etc.  So  in  the  same 
play,  Old  Polonius  tells  Laertes,  '  To  thine  o/rn 
self  be  true,'  etc. 

"Again,  St.  Paul,  in  his  Epistle  to  the  Romans, 
says  in  the  well-known  passage,  k  For  what  I  do  I 
allow  not ;  for  what  I  would,  that  do  I  not  ;  but 
what  I  hate,  that  do  I."  k  For  the  good  that  I 
would  not,  that  I  do.'  '  For  I  delight  in  the  law 
of  God,  after  the  inward  man  ;  but  I  see  another 
law  in  my  members  warring  against  the  law  of  my 
mind,'  etc. 

"•Thomas  Carlyle,  in  his  Reminiscences,  some 
where  in  the  remarks  on  Edward  Irving,  and  while 
speaking  of  his  own  indecision  after  one  of  his 
returns  to  London,  remarks,  'Another  morning 
what  was  wholesomer  and  better,  happening  to 
notice,  as  I  stood  looking  out  011  the  bit  of  green 


A  FASHIONABLE  SUFFERER.          197 

under  my  bedroom  window,  a  trim  and  rather 
pretty  hen  actively  paddling  about  and  picking  up 
what  food  might  be  discoverable.  See!  I  said  to 
myself.  Look,  thou  fool !  Here  is  a  two-legged 
creature,  with  .scarcely  half  a  thimbleful  of  brains ; 
thou  calFst  thyself  a  man,  with  nobody  knows  how 
much  brain,  and  reason  dwelling  in  it ;  and  behold 
how  the  one  life  is  regulated,  and  how  the  other  ! 
In  God's  name  concentrate,  collect  whatever  of 
reason  thou  hast,  and  direct  it  on  the  one  thing 
needful/  Now  if  anything  were  needed  to  estab 
lish  the  truth  of  this  proposition,  such  extracts  from 
the  inspired  writings  and  the  utterances  of  won 
derful  men  would  he  amply  sufficient  to  prove  the 
existence  of  separate  individualities  residing  in  the 
same  person :  two  distinct  egos,  or  else  a  double 
automatic-acting  one. 

"  These  two  personalities  reason  with  each  other, 
wrestle  with  each  other,  and  alternately  gain  the 
mastery  over  each  other,  as  occasion  serves,  or  pe 
culiar  circumstances  favor.  Each  ego  may  be  said 
to  live  in  a  state  of  independent  dependence,  and 
inter-mutual  antagonistic  attraction  upon  and  with 
the  other.  It  is  a  queer  state  to  be  in  ;  but  it  is  a 
queer  sort  of  possession  to  be  possessed  of  any  way. 
Jt  appears  that  nobody  is  without  these  two  inner 
governors.  They  complete  one's  moral  identity  in 
this  world,  as  much  as  one's  oesophagus  or  liver  do 
his  physical  nature.  Nor  are  these  individualities 
always  antagonistic.  They  often  appear  to  dwell 


1  98  A'  FASHIONABLE   SUFFERER. 

together  in  lamb-like  alliance.  Happy  is  the  man 
between  whom  and  his  '  own  self '  there  is  no  va 
riance,  for  the  skies  are  bright  and  the  grass  is 
green.  His  heart  throbs  on  with  a  cheery  pulse, 
and  the  whole  hue  of  life  is  the  color  of  the  rose. 
Trouble  begins  only  when  the  paths  of  these  two 
individualities  diverge ;  when  one  insists  on  'boss 
ing'  the  other,  or  of  donning  a  mask  and  false 
presentment,  which  the  other  just  as  stoutly  per 
sists  in  pulling  oil.  This  alter  eyo,  whether  good 
or  bad,  keeps  itself  well  out  of  sight,  and  yet  is 
lodged  somewhere  within  very  easy  call.  We  all 
know  just  when1  its  hiding-place  is,  although  we 
never  disclose  it,  —  no,  not  even  to  ourselves,  —  what 
ever  that  may  mean.  'Says  I  to  myself,' is  what 
we  are  all  constantly  saying ;  and  often  "my sell" 
retorts  upon  us  in  a  most  unpleasant  manner,  tell 
ing  us  that  we  are  liars,  and  Pharisees,  and  wretched 
hypocrites,  when,  by  the  dumb  show  of  our  out 
ward  mien,  we  appear  to  the  world  just  the  oppo 
site. 

"It  would  hardly  be  right  to  call  this  twin- 
brother  conscience,  because  it  acts  so  often  in  a 
manner  different  from  a  judge  of  the  moral  sense. 
It  is  merely  our  other  self ;  that  individuality  which 
does  not  appear  on  the  surface.  It  may  be  a  bad 
self  as  easily  as  a  good  self,  as  our  real  desires  may 
be  horrid  and  devilish.  This  hidden  soul-machinery 
is  so  complicated  and  kaleidoscopic  in  its  action, 
that  we  hate  and  loathe  what  we  at  the  same  mo- 


A  FASHIONABLE  SUFFERER.          199 

nient  endure  and  embrace.  And  such  is  the  subtle 
character  of  these  two  natures,  that  they  make  us 
love  to  hate  that  which  we  hate  to  love,  and  yet  do 
love.  And  we  find  ourselves  deliberately  reveling 
in  scenes,  and  becoming  prominent  in  actions,  which 
we  are  simultaneously  condemning  with  the  bit 
terest  invective. 

"  It  is  almost  laughable  to  hear  philosophy  claim 
ing  to  determine  what  the  human  mind  can  or 
cannot  conceive  ;  when  such  harlequin  perform 
ances  and  moral  pancraticals  as  these  are  turning 
and  tumbling  us  about  in  the  manner  above  sug 
gested. 

"  It  would  be  extremely  amusing,  if  it  were  not 
so  mighty  serious,  to  watch  the  tussles  which  these 
two  egos  are  continually  having  with  each  other. 
The  devils  —  if  there  are  any  —  must  be  most  in 
terested  spectators  of  these  little  skirmishes  which 
are  ever  going  on  within  us.  IIow  excited  they 
must  be  to  watch  an  individual  get  into  heated  ar 
gument,  for  instance,  and  in  his  warmth  say  ex 
actly  what  he  neither  means  nor  believes  ;  and  how, 
little  by  little,  he  linds  himself  in  a  false  position; 
then  how  pride  and  obstinacy  rush  out  to  bolster 
him  up,  until  he,  becomes  absolutely  ridiculous. 
And  then  they  see  a  little  door  open,  and  the  man's 
other  self  steals  out  and  walks  tiptoe  up  to  him, 
and  whispers  in  his  ear  that  he  is  a  fool;  that 
everything  he  said  was  a  lie,  and  lie  knew  it  was 
when  he  said  it.  And  then  the  man  seizes  himself 


200       A  FASHIONABLE  SUFFERER. 

by  his  own  mental  coat-collar,  and  by  the  little 
short  hair  in  his  mental  neck,  which  hurts  so,  and 
twitches  himself  off  his  feet,  and  hauls  himself 
away  into  a  corner,  where  he  jounces  himself  down 
with  considerable  roughness,  and  leaves  himself 
there  —  poor,  degraded  creature  in  his  own  eyes  — 
to  chew  out  the  k  cud  of  sweet  and  bitter  fancy,' 
until  his  punishment  is  over. 

*"  I  would  like  to  inquire  how  the  doctrine  of 
either  molecular  force  or  will-power  can  be  applied 
to  such  case  as  this?  Again,  when  any  individual 
puts  on  a  sanctimonious  outward  guise  of  innocence, 
having  a  deep,  conscious,  and  inner  intent  of  com 
mitting  wrong,  the  working  of  this  dual  conscious 
ness  is  well  exhibited.  Here  the  alter  ego,  the 
other  self,  is  a  bad  self,  and  anything  but  the  man's 
real  moral  sense.  It  is  n't  his  conscience,  for  it 
does  n't  condemn  him ;  on  the  contrary,  it  spurs 
him  on  to  exhibit  this  heavenly  expression,  this 
lamb-like  air,  for  the  express  purpose  of  committing 
the  crime.  That  is  not  conscience.  Indeed,  in 
such  instances,  we  might  almost  say  there,  were 
three  consciousnesses  at  work.  One,  the  conscious 
being  who  goes  about  with  the  sanctimonious  ex 
pression.  Second,  the  spirit  within  him  prompting 
him  to  deceit,  for  an  ultimate  bad  end  in  view  ;  and 
the  third,  the  little  dried-up  party  in  the  rear  — 
conscience,  if  you  please  —  Avhich  is  doubling  its 
fist  in  his  face,  and  is  hurrying  him  onward  toward 
a  gibbet  of  his  own  making,  and, upon  which  he 


A  FASHIONABLE  SUFFERER. 


201 


voluntarily  mounts,  and  insists  upon  hanging  and 
choking  to  death. 

"•  When  I  commenced  those  remarks  I  was 
greatly  impressed  with  the  probable  fact  that  we 
had  two  distinct  consciousnesses  within  us  ;  but 
after  writing  all  the  above,  the  fearful  thought 
arises  whether,  besides  the  consciousness  that  there 
are  two  distinct  consciousnesses  within  us  —  mak 
ing  three, — the  consciousness  that  we  have  the 
consciousness  of  two  consciousnesses  may  not 
prove  that  we  have  four.  This  suggestion  is  so 
frightful,  however,  that 
I  instinctively  fly  from 
its  discussion."'  (Ap 
plause.) 

(Mr.  Douce  takes  a 
sip    from   his   tumbler,      / 
wipes  the   perspiration 
from      his     brow,     and 
starts  on  again. ) 

"•  As  at  first  sight  the 
whole  question  of  con 
sciousness  or  no  con 
sciousness,  or  of  two  consciousnesses,  or  of  any 
number  of  consciousnesses,  might  easily  be  con 
founded  with  that  cognate  subject,  entitled,  '  Sec 
ond  Sight  and  Visions.'  I  shall  avoid  all  such 
complications  by  quoting  the  language?  of  another, 
who  says:  *  In  the  subjective  reality  of  objective 
falsity  lies  the  reasonable  explanation  of  many  of 


202          A  FASHIONABLE  SUFFERER. 

the  delusions  that  affect  mankind ; '  which  settles 
the  question,  as  the  duality  of  individuality  is  no 
delusion,  and  therefore  does  not  come  within  the 
above  category.  I  wish  now  most  reverently  to 
draw  an  illustration  of  Dual  Individuality  from 
the  New  Testament,  and  I  desire  to  descant  upon 
it  with  becoming  decorum  and  propriety.  The  il 
lustration  which  I  adduce  is  the  'Temptation,'  as 
contained  in  the  (iospel  narration. 

"  There  is  at  the  outset  a  great  difficulty  in  deter 
mining  whether,  in  the  first  place,  the  temptation 
was  a  contest  going  on  between  the  man  Christ, 
that  is,  between  his  earthly  passions  and  human 
desires,  and  his  other  self,  just  as  it  might  go  on 
within  the  bosom  of  any  other  human  being  in 
like  position  ;  or  whether  this  contest  went  on 
within  the  divine  being — in  his  mixed  character, 
that  is,  between  the  humanity  and  his  divinity;  or, 
again,  whether  either  of  these  individualities,  that 
is,  the  man  or  the  (Jod,  had  this  struggle  with  the 
genius  of  Evil  —  with  Satan  himself  in  his  bodily 
shape?  As  nobody  can  positively  settle  either  of 
these  propositions,  it  is  perfectly  allowable  for  me, 
and  for  the  purpose,  I  have  in  view,  to  choose  one 
of  them.  I  certainly  shall  assume,  then,  that  the 
struggle  was  between  the  humanity  of  the  prophet 
of  Galilee1  and  somebody,  or  some  other  force.  I 
don't  hesitate  to  do  this,  because  I  conceive  that 
there  would  be  no  struggle  at  all,  no  sort  of  temp 
tation,  as  we  understand  that  word  to  mean,  if  the 


A   FASHIONABLE    SUFFERER.  203 

Great  Master  was  there  in  his  divine  character, 
for  it  would  be  an  impossible  thing'  to  tempt  Deity. 
It  is  inconceivable,  therefore,  to  say  that  Deity 
was  taken  up  into  a  high  mountain  by  Satan  and 
tempted,  and  is  degrading-  to  all  divine  attributes. 
There  is  one  little  difficulty  however,  just  here, 
which  arises  from  the  fact  that  the  Master  expressly 
says,  after  each  attempt  of  Satan,  4  Thou  shalt 
not  tempt  the  Lord  thy  (iod.'  The  only  way  I 
can  see  out  of  this  dilemna  is  that  Deity  was  there 
as  the  Man  —  l  with  like  passions  to  ourselves,' 
and  that  this  struggle  went  on  within  himself,  just 
as  it  would  go  on  within  the  breast  of  any  other 
man  ;  but  he  also  knew  and  felt  that  there  was 
divinitii  in  him,  which  he  never,  however,  brought 

i/  O 

to  his  assistance,  in  order  to  get  rid  of  the  tempter, 
but  contented  himself  by  simply  notifying  Satan  of 
the  great  fact.  .Just  here  I  would  mention  an  ob 
jection  which  is  sometimes  made  on  tliis  passage, 
that  it  is  •  used  by  the  Saviour  as  forbidding  him 
self  to  tempt  (rod,  not  as  a  reproof  to  Satan/  In 
reply,  1  \vould  ask  what  ground  has  the  objector 
to  make  such  an  assertion?  The  context  certainly 
savs  in  so  many  words,  that  tl»e  Saviour,  in  one  of 
his  replies  to  Satan,  says,  *  Thou  shalt  not  tempt 
the  Lord  thy  (iod/  Surely  if  he  did  not  say  this  to 
Satan,  no  more  did  he  address  him  when  he  said, 
'  (iet  thee  behind  me/  It  is  strained  and  far 
fetched  to  make  this  passage  represent  Our  Lord 
as  talking  to  himself. 


204  A    FASHIONABLE    SUFFERER. 

^  From  this  stand-point,  then,  we  have  a  beautiful 
illustration  of  dual  individuality.  For  whether  the 
struggle  transpired  wholly  within  his  own  breast  or 
not,  it  was  still  a  struggle  between  his  two  individ 
ualities  :  one  telling  him  how  magnificent  it  would 
be  to  rule  —  as  a  man  —  all  the  kingdoms  of  the 
earth.  How  flattering  it  would  be  to  self-love  and 
vanity  to  receive  worldly  applause  and  popular  adu 
lation  :  and  that  he  had  only  to  accept  the  tempting 
offer,  in  order  to  establish  an  earthly  and  princely 
kingdom,  —  and  this  was  a  sore  temptation  to  a  poor 
carpenter's  son.  The  other  self  was,  we  may  imag 
ine,  at  the  same  time  whispering  to  him  the  words 
of  the  prophet :  "  Vanity  of  vanities  —  all  is  vanity." 
To  yield  now  would  be  an  ignominious  finish  to  the 
glorious  doctrine  but  yesterday  promulgated  in  the 
streets  and  bv-wavs  of  Jiulea,  a  pitiable  answer  to 
the  startling  words  of  John  the  Baptist,  '  Behold 
the  Lamb  of  ( iod  !  ' 

'•  The  man  battled  with  himself,  weighing  and 
balancing  the  arguments  for  and  against,  as  they 
were  brought  up  before  him,  and  thanks  be  to 
an  Almighty  power,  his  better  consciousness  pre 
vailed,  and  saved  a  world. 

"  Now,  for  a  moment,  let  us  take  the  other  case, 
—  thai,  of  Satan  himself.  Let  us  conceive  for  the 
nonce,  that  the  (ienius  of  Kvil — if  there  he  any 
such  individual  —  appeared  to  the  author  of  ( 'hris- 
tianity  and  presented -to  him  his  side  of  the  ques 
tion  in  the  most  attractive  and  dazzling  manner. 


A   FASHIONABLE   SUFFERER.  205 

We  may  imagine  that  lie  came  with  seductive  mien 
—  '  as  an  angel  of  light.'  This  outward  appearance 
of  innocence,  and  this  persuasive  language  would 
naturally  give  the  impression  of  a  creature  of  hon 
est  purpose,  possessing  at  the  same  time  the 
charms  of  a  commanding  intelligence  ;  while  be 
hind  this  fascinating  exterior  was  lurking  that  other 
self,  that  earthly,  sensual,  and  devilish  individual 
ity,  reeking  with  direful  and  deadly  purpose.  Here 
the  two  egos  are  again  displayed  in  sharp  relief, 
one  against  the  other,  — -  that  which  first  appeared, 
all  smiles,  blandishments,  and  seduction,  and  that 
other  malignant  principle,  that  quintessence  of  hell, 
which,  had  it  won  the  victory,  would  have  entailed 
upon  the  world  inconceivable  woe. 

"  I  now  pass  to  some  animadversions  of  my  sub 
ject,  and  will  enumerate  certain  thoughts  suggested 
by  my  theme,  as  they  present  themselves  before  me. 
It  is  a  rare  privilege,  that  of  expressing  one's  self  be 
fore  a  lenient  audience  without  incurring  responsi 
bility;  and  I  take  advantage  of  this  immunity  to 
say  that  dual  individuality  is  sufficiently  a  fact  not 
to  be  seriously  controverted,  which  leaves  me  at 
liberty  to  consume  the  remainder  of  my  time  in 
making  general  remarks  upon  my  subject. 

••  The  evolution  of  thought  is  never  a  contempti 
ble  process.  On. the  contrary,  it  is  a  noble  mental 
operation.  The  value  of  these  mental  products, 
however,  is  another  question.  This  factor  is  deter 
mined  by  the  fibre  of  the  mind,  whatever  that 


206         A  FASHIONABLE  SUFFERER. 

vague  expression  may  mean.  Some  thoughts, 
like  some  milk,  are  thin  and  watery ;  others  are 
loaded  down  with  the  heavy  cream  of  cogitation  ; 
so  that  it  is  not  every  thoughtful  person  who 
evolves  the  deepest  and  most  valuable  results  by 
any  means. 

u  The  first  thought  on  the  subject'  of  dual  con 
sciousness  which  I  desire,  to  express  is  rather  a  mea 
gre  one,  but  I  note  it  down  as  a  physician  does  a 
symptom. 

"  A  good  deal  is  told  us  by  the  superstitious, 
about  the  mystic  significance  of  the  odd  number 
Three  ;  but  it  occurs  to  me  how  much  more  might 
be  said  of  the  even  number  Two.  Throughout  the 
animal  world  duality  in  some  of  its  forms  seems  to 
reside.  Hearing,  seeing,  smelling,  walking,  talk 
ing,  and  feeling,  —  all  require  a  duality  of  action  of 
some  sort  in  order  to  their  exact  performance.  Even 
iu  thinking,  or  in  living,  or  departing  from  this 
world,  the  soul  and  the  body  are  necessary  to  its 
perfect  execution.  Besides  the  double  ear,  eye, 
nostril,  tonsils,  we  have  the  leg,  the  vocal  chords, 
with  the  dual  action  of  the  tongue  with  the  roof  of 
the  mouth  in  order  to  taste.  We  have  also  the 
double  lung,  the  two  ventricles  of  the  heart,  the 
stomach  and  viscera  for  perfect  digestion ;  the  sub 
tle  conjunction  of  nerves  and  brain,  the  cerebrum 
and  the  cerebellum,  the  mystic  tie  between  soul 
and  body,  the  equally  mystic  loosing  of  soul  from 
body,  the  male  and  female,  the  marriage  tie  ;  be- 


A  FASHIONABLE  SUFFERER.          207 

sides  the  marked  antithesis  throughout  all  nature 
between  one  thing  and  some  other  directly  oppo 
site,  as  light  and  darkness,  good  and  evil,  loss  and 
gain,  etc.  Then  ascending  higher  in  the  scale, 
the  connection  between  the  finite  and  the  infinite, 
God  and  man,  the  highest  ideal  man  a  purified 
soul  in  a  purified  body,  the  perfection  of  heaven, 
Christ  and  his  Church,  and  the  perfect  reconcil 
iation,  God  and  mankind,  etc.,  etc. 

kw  The  next  thought  I  wish  to  express  is,  that  the 
very  presence  within  us  of  this  wonderful  conscious 
ness,  whether  it  be  single  or  double,  or  even  triple  ; 
or  whether  it  be  only  the  varying  shades  of  one 
and  the  same  conscience  ;  this  fact,  that  there  is 
inside  every  man,  lodged  in  his  brain,  or  outside 
of  him,  or  wherever  it  may  be,  a  subtle  power  — 
not  subject  to  the  same  law  of  government  as  his 
vitals  are,  and  not  amenable  to  the  same  rule  as  his 
life,  but  which  talks  with  him,  argues  with  him, 
flatters  him,  makes  him  sin,  causes  him  to  repent, 
blanches  his  cheek  with  fear,  accuses  him  of  crime 
and  drags  him  to  a  mental  prison,  —  is  a  convincing 
proof  of  his  immortality. 

"It  matters  little  whether  molecules  move  them 
selves  or  not;  it  is  certain  that  thought  and  passion 
move  about  at  the  bidding  of  some  higher  poten 
tate,  some  invisible  king.  So  intangible,  so  impon 
derable,  and  so  invisible  are  they,  as  to  pass  beyond 
and  reach  into  another  sphere,  differing  from  that 
which  feeds  man's  body,  and  is  compelled  to  wit- 


208          A  FASHIONABLE  SUFFERER. 

ness  man's  ignoble  actions.     God — or  whatever  we 
may  call  the  intelligent  omnipotent  First  Cause  — 
linked  himself  or  itself  to  humanity,  and  made  a 
domicile  therein  in  this  mysterious  manner. 

"  These  individualities  are  the  God-principles, 
the  seals  of  divinity,  the  heavenly  brands  of  owner 
ship  set  upon  humanity,  and  I  verily  believe  on 
some  species  of  animals,  and  labeled  them  for 
heaven.  They  are  seeds  from  a  celestial  country, 
planted  in  man  to  aid  him  to  grow  up  from  out  of 
earthly  degradation  into  an  eternal  existence. 

kk  The  next  thought  which  I  suggest  is,  that  if  it 
is  true  that  this  dual  individuality  in  man,  this  al 
ter  eyo,  is  sometimes  good  and  sometimes  evil,  how 
is  it  possible  that  it  can  subserve  the  high  aim  of 
working  out  man's  ultimate  salvation  ? 

"  Vital  principles,  whose  end  is  immortality,  must 
of  necessity  be  immortal  themselves.  It  is  rather 
contrary  to  modern.thought  to  hold  that  the  prin 
ciple  of  evil  is  eternal,  so,  if  these  two  principles 
within  us,  which  are  to  accomplish  such  results, 
are  immortal,  —  and  they  must  be  immortal  to  ef 
fect  this,  — then  it  follows  that  the  bad  principle 
must  always  be  bad,  eternally  bad. 

"  The  way  I  solve  this  rather  difficult  question 
in  my  own  mind  is  this :  That  although  it  may  be 
true  that  these  individualities  are  immortal,  it  does 
not  follow  that  the  good  individuality  may  not  be  a 
stronger  principle  than  the  bad  one ;  and  that,  in 
the  countless  ages  the  great  warfare  might  not  en*d 
in  the  triumph  of  right. 


A  FASHIONABLE  SUFFERER.          200 

u  The  next  thought  is  :  If  the  bad  ego  is  immor 
tal,  ho\v  is  it  possible  to  overcome  him?  In  two 
ways.  One  is  :  The  badness  of  the  one  may  not 
have  been  inherent,  and,  therefore,  might  in  the 
end  be  overcome  ;  leaving  him,  to  be  sure,  without 
occupation,  a  rather  discouraged  sort  of  an  individ 
uality  ;  a  kind  of  an  immortal  drone,  in  the  heav 
enly  kingdom,  minus  his  power  to  accomplish  an 
evil.  The  second  way  is  :  That  the  doctrine  and 
spirit  of  Christianity,  acting  in  conjunction  with 
the  natural  love  of  right  implanted  in  every  creat 
ure,  might  convert  the  other  individuality  at  last, 
and  so  enable  the  man  to  attain  eternal  happiness; 
his  very  bad  individuality  becoming  at  last  a  very 
good  one,  and  merging  into  the  other,  thus  making 
him  twice  as  good." 

The  audience  here  commence  to  grow  weary  and 
twist  about  in  their  seats,  which  causes  Mr.  Douce 
to  say,  quickly  :  — 

••  In  conclusion,  and  before  leaving  the  subject 
in  your  hands  for  discussion  and  decision,  I  wish 
to  express  my  own  thorough  belief  in  the  truth  of 
my  proposition  ;  but  also  to  add,  that  man's  intel 
lect  is  at  best  but  feeble,  and  therefore,  possibly  I 
may  have  been,  after  all,  greatly  mistaken  about 
this  subject,  and  what  I  have,  been  calling  the  du 
ality  of  individuality  is  nothing  more  than  our  old 
friend  conscience  acting  the  part  of  Harlequin  and 
assuming  all  sorts  of  quaint  and  disturbed  forms 

in  order  to  deceive  us. 
14 


210         A  FASHIONABLE  SUFFERER. 

"  Whatever  may  be  the  truth,  there  is  undeni 
ably  something  very  mysterious  and  wonderful 
about  this  double  mental  machinery,  which  defies 
our  comprehension." 

(Mr.  Douce  bows  his  head  low  to  signify  that 
his  lecture  was  concluded.  Prolonged  applause.) 

When  the  audience  separated  they  seemed  to  be 
considerably  mixed  up  and  confused  in  their  no 
tions  of  dual  individualities.  Some  thought  they 
had  two,  while  others  believed  the  whole  idea  was 
"  moonshine."  The  lecture  had  one  good  effect, 
however,  for  it  set  Paradise  thinking,  and  that  is 
what  Paradise  needed. 

The  night  was  quite  dark,  and  Cupid  and  Psyche 
(two  lovers  from  the  k>  Hill-top")  decided  to  walk 
home  together  under  rover  of  the  deep  shadows  ; 
so  as  they  trudged  along  down  the  south  road, 
hand  in  hand,  Psyche  remarked  to  Cupid,  somewhat 
alarmed  :  u  My  dear,  do  you  believe  that  you  and  I 
have  dual  individualities  ?  " 

"  We  may  have  two  of  them  now,  my  darling," 
answered  Cupid  as  lie  stole  his  arm  about  his  inam 
orata's  waist,  "but  next  fall,  after  Bishop  Good  pro 
nounces  the  benediction,  we  shall  only  have  one." 
^  How  queer  it  will  all  seem  !  " 
"  Yes  —  queer —  but  so  comforting  !  " 
"  Still,  I  don't  quite  understand  yet,"  said  Psy 
che. 

'•  Let  me  explain  then,  dearest,"  replied  Cupid. 


A   FASHIONABLE    SUFFERER. 


211 


"  Tt  is  perfectly  clear  to  me  now,"  whispered 
Psyche,  as  she  tore  herself  from  her  lover's  em 
brace  and  rushed  up-stairs  to  her  room  in  the  new 


cottage. 


CHAPTER   VI. 

MR.    CYNICUS    nOl'CK    SURRENDERS. 

A  LARGE  room  on  ground  floor  in  "  Benjamin's  " 
house;  neat  cottage  furniture;  elegant  portiere1, 
and  lace  curtains  gracefully  concealing,  within  a 
deep  recess,  what  might  contain  wash-stand  and 
toilet  apparatus  ;  a  gay-colored  cretonne  lounge  ;  a, 
centre-table,  covered  with  latest  periodicals,  pocket 
editions  of  kb  Lucilr"  and  Mrs.  Browning's  "  Au 
rora  Leigh:"  lady's  writing-desk  with  dainty 
scented  paper,  etc. ;  unanswered  letters  lying  about; 
a,  bunch  of  roses  on  table  •,  large  traveling  trunk  at 
side  of  room  ;  pair  of  pale  blue  silk  slippers  at  foot 
of  lounge  ;  a  small  draped  mirror,  with  lady's  toi 
let  extravagances,  manicure  box,  etc'. ;  on  a  bracket 
in  corner,  several  phials  of  medicine  in  disuse  ; 
heavy  lace  curtains  to  all  the  windows  ;  the  Beau 
tiful  N.  E.  discovered  at  full  length  on  the  lounge, 
with  paper-cutter  in  hand  reading ;  as  she  reads, 


A  FASHIONABLE  SUFFERER.          218 

she  seems  to  meditate,  stops,  commences  again  ;  she 
is  very  prettily  dressed,  and  has  a  wee  bit  of  a  mole 
under  her  right  ear ;  time,  four  o'clock  in  after 
noon  ;  all  the  guests  either  asleep  or  driving. 

There  is  a  saying  that  all  roads  lead  to  Rome ;  so 
in  human  society  all  things  point  to  matrimony.  I 
mean  by  matrimony  a  natural  affinity  of  the  sexes, 
which  inevitably  draws  them  together.  Not  that 

\J 

everything  ends  in  marriage  by  a  "long  shot;" 
but,  if  matrimony  were  a  big  show,  the  tide  of  so 
ciety  would  be  seen  setting  in  towards  it  from  all 
quarters. 

We  do  not  all  get  into  this  matrimonial  ring,  and 
many  who  do  want  to  get  out  again;  but  for  all 
that,  the  fact  remains,  of  this  steady  current  flow 
ing  in  the  direction  of  the  phantom  tents  of 
w*  union  ;  "  in  spite  of  man's  declaration  to  the  con 
trary,  and  woman's  pretensions  to  be  above  its  in 
fluence.  There  are  a  few  specimens  from  both  the 
sexes  who  seem  to  be  beyond  the  pale  of  this  influ 
ence.  For  instance,  there  is  the  man-woman,  that 
is,  a  female  who  has  mixed  up  in  her  composition  a 
sufficient  number  of  manly  attributes  to  supply  the 
natural  desire  which  each  sex  has  for  that  which  the 
opposite  one  possesses.  Then,  there  are  a  few  per 
sons  whose  intellectual  nature  is  far  in  excess  of  the 
affections,  and  which  has  squelched,  so  to  speak, 
those  inherent  qualities  of  dependence,  gregarious- 
ness,  and  love  which  are  common  to  both  sexes, 
and  which  constitute  the  charm  of  human  society. 


214          A  FASHIONABLE  SUFFERER. 

And  lastly,  there  are  those  people  who  have  once 
been  married,  and  whose  self-will  is  so  strong,  and 
the  enjoyment  of  that  sweet-boon  "•  liberty  "  is  so 
delectable,  that  they  cannot  brook  the  mutual  self- 
sacrifice  which  such  an  alliance  necessitates.  Hut 
even  these  poor  seeming-  exceptions  to  the  rule  are 
continually  getting  into  trouble  caused  by  this 
same  tendency  of  the  sexes  to  affiliate. 

Although  JNIr.  Cynicus  Douce  did  not  exactly 
come  within  the  category  of  either  of  these  classes, 
he  still  professed  to  be'  beyond  and  above  the  com 
mon  rules  which  regulate  men.  He  had  a  kind 
heart  and  a  level  head,  and  he  saw,  or  thought  he 
saw,  that  all  men  Avere,  —  if  not  "liars,"'  as  the 
sacred  writer  has  it, — at  least,  dissemblers,  back 
biters,  unjust,  slanderers,  damners  with  faint  praise, 
self-lovers,  shams,  and  Pharisees.  And  he  came 
to  the  conclusion  that  he  had  no  use  for  this  sort  of 
society.  His  creed  was  simple,  and  so  he  felt  no 
sympathy  with  what  seemed  to  him  the  mere  tin 
sel  of  piety  minus  its  substance.  He  used  society 
for  the  amusement  it  afforded  him,  and  was  con 
tent.  Of  course  he  believed  that  there  was  some 
virtue  and  affection  and  true  worth  in  everybody, 
but  he  saw  so  much  of  the  other  animus  in  the 
world  that  he  became  sick  of  it. 

Much  to  his  chagrin,  he  discovered  that  these 
views  were  gradually  begetting  in  him  what  might 
be  termed  a  cynical  diathesis.  lie  was  puzzled 
what  to  do  about  it.  Naturally  of  a  warm  and 


A  FASHIONABLE  SUFFERER.          215 

ardent  disposition,  he  started  on  life's  journey, 
loving  and  asking  for  love  in  return.  He  soon 
found,  however,  that  men  and  women  want  to  be 
loved  well  enough,  and  will  accept  all  of  it  you 
care  to  give  them ;  will  seize  with  avidity  all  your 
kind  offices,  and  all  your  self-sacrifices  for  their 
joy  ;  and  all  your  untiring  efforts  to  procure  for 
them  the  "  front  seats  "  in  this  world,  and  to  feed 
them  with  the  cream  of  its  pleasures;  but  if  you 
happen  to  suggest  that  perhaps  there  is  something, 
some  little  thing,  due  to  you  for  all  this  devotion, 
this  self-abnegation,  this  wear  and  tear  in  their 
service,  they  will  look  in  your  face  with  blank  as 
tonishment.  The  idea  of  making  any  such  return 
never  entered  their  minds.  Their  philosophy  is 
after  this  sort :  say  they,  "•  If  you  love  me  truly, 
you  will  give  to  me  all  these  things  ;  and  make  all 
these  sacrifices  freely,  not  expecting  any  return. 
True  love  is  unselfish.  True  love  asks  but  to  die  in 
the  service  of  its  idol.  As  it  is  more  blessed  to  give 
than  to  receive,  so  we  are  allowing  you  to  enjoy 
that  supremest  of  pleasures."  In  reply  to  this  you 
ask  :  "•  Don't  you  ever  make  any  return  for  benefits 
received?"  If  they  answered  truly,  they  would 
say:  "Never,  if  we  can  help  it.  We  merely  re 
ceive.  We  are  the  kings  and  the  queens  of  society  : 
born  to  receive  homage,  not  to  give  it.  You  are 
our  vassals,  and  you  should  be  happy  in  serving  us.  ' 
This  kind  of  philosophy  is  sound  enough,  Mr. 
Douce  thought,  if  practiced  among  a  nation  of 


216         A  FASHIONABLE  SUFFERER. 

slaves ;  but  he  argued,  that  in  society  as  at  present 
constituted  these  monarchs  should  be  pretty  sure 
of  their  thrones  before  they  attempted  any  such 
tyranny.  So  Mr.  Douce  found  by  experience  that 
he  loved,  and  loved,  and  loved,  hoping  for  a  return 
in  kind,  but  found  that  his  love  fell  on  a  dry  and 
parched  ground,  "  where  no  water  is  ;  "  so  this  dis 
covery  taught  him  a  lesson  which  he  acted  upon 
intelligently.  lie  laughed  and  joked  in  society. 
He  sipped  its  honey,  and  smelled  its  flowers.  He 
ate  its  fruit,  and  spat  out  its  pits ;  and  so  gave  up 
all  idea  of  ever  granting  his  warm  heart  a  holiday 
again.  He  considered  that  organ  beyond  the  reach 
of  profane  hands.  It  was  in  this  way  that  he 
flitted  in  and  out  among  his  fellows.  lie  still  had 
his  friendships,  as  IK;  used  to  have  his  loves.  He 
seated  himself  just  within  the  glare  of  society,  and 
was  delighted  to  behold  its  full  corruscations  af 
fecting  the  destinies  of  others,  while  he  sat  snugly 
ensconced  in  a  corner  watching  the  result.  Now, 
albeit  his  fine  experience  had  brought  him  to  a 
logical  conclusion,  it  did  not  at  all  destroy  the  truth 
of  accomplished  facts.  A  fact  is  a  fact,  whatever 
else  is  false.  For  instance,  that  beauty  will  at 
tract,  is  a  fact  perfectly  incontrovertible.  Fasci 
nation  and  natural  affinity  between  two  people, 
will,  under  certain  conditions,  inevitably  produce 
certain  results.  A  woman's  smile  and  a  woman's 
word  of  promise  will  certainly  produce  a  known 
and  acknowledged  effect  on  man.  Even  supposing 


A    FASHIONABLE   SUFFERER.  217 

the  one  and  the  other  to  be  as  false  as  Hades  itself. 
Such  is  the  certainty  of  accomplished  facts. 

Like  the  rest  of  mankind,  Mr.  Douce  was  fallible. 
And  though  he  was  cynical,  he  was  nevertheless 
mortal,  and  therefore  susceptible  to  the  great  facts 
of  fascination  and  beauty.  So  one  day,  one  sa 
lubrious  afternoon,  he  walked  into  the  presence  of 
his  dear  friend,  the  Beautiful  X.  H.,  as  a  man  of 
recogni/.ed  and  distinct  convictions,  and  he  walked 
out  of  it  again  soon  afterwards,  shattered  in  his 
convictions  and  riddled  in  his  principles  ;  and  this 
is  the  way  it  happened  :  — 

I  hue,  that  wonderful  medicine,  effects  most  as 
tonishing  cures.  It  eats  up  animosities  ;  seals  and 
shatters  friendships  :  destroys  youth  ;  throws  a  film 
of  uncertainty  over  its  follies,  and  a  glamour  over 
its  crimes,  lint  among  its  beneficent  and  charm 
ing  effects,  none  was  more  marked  than  that  pro 
duced  upon  our  beautiful  friend,  the  "Nervous 
Exluiustionist." 

Hither  the  tonic  air  of  Paradise,  the  gradual  in 
fluence  of  her  summer  experience  among  normal 
people,  or  her  own  returning  health,  caused  her  to 
view  life  from  a  different  stand-point  —  or  rather 
reclining  jioint  of  view  —  for  she  appeared  one 
morning,  to  the  astonishment  of  all  her  friends, 
mounted  on  a  slashing  bay  mare  with  a  banged 
tail,  and  commenced  galloping  over  the,  Paradise 
hills  in  such  a  manner  as  to  completely  knock  up 
her  faithful  man  Thomas,  and  delight  her  loving 


218 


A   FASHIONABLE   SUFFERER. 


family.  This  was  no  spurt  or  vagary,  but  she  kept 
on  in  her  change  of  purpose  until  all  that  was 
beautiful  and  glorious  in  her  had  been  fully  aroused 
from  that  long  lethargy  in  which  it  lay  buried,  and 
she  became  at  once  the  comfort  and  the  pride  of  an 
admiring  crowd  of  friends.  The  fact  that  his  beau 
tiful  friend  had  taken  her  place  again  among 
what  he  termed  "the  powers  of  the  earth,"  was 


a  source  of  intense  satisfaction  to  Mr.  Cynicus 
Douce.  Knowing  her  from  childhood,  he  felt  there 
had  been  lost  to  the  world  a  noble  woman,  who  had 
gradually  succumbed  to  the  seductive  allurements 
of  a  luxurious  invalidism.  His  heart  kindled  with 
kindly  emotion  when  he  beheld  what  he  was 
pleased  to  call  her  "  resurrection,"  and  he  expe 
rienced  a  pardonable  sort  of  self-gratification  as  he 
beheld  this  great  change,  which,  lie  flattered  him- 


A   FASHIONABLE    SUFFERER. 


221 


self,  was  the  fruit  of  his  own  precious  example  and 

teachings. 

Although  Mr.  Douce  was  unalterably  fixed  in  his 

favorite  creed  concerning  society,  he  became  grad 
ually  convinced  that  two  opposing  facts  could  also 

exist,   side   by   side,   without  detriment  to   either. 

For  instance,  although  lie 

firmly  believed  that  the 

world  was  teeming  with 

hypocrisy  and  selfishness, 

lie  was  also  beginning  to 

allow  that  there  was  also 

such  a  thing  in  society  as 

true  love  and  disinterest 
edness.     In  this  dubious 

frame  of  mind  he  left  his 

room  in  the  new  cottage, 

and    trudging    over    the 

green    grass,    k  n  o  c  k  e  d 

gently  at  the  door  of  his  fair  friend,  the  Beautiful 

N.  K.' 

(Knock  heard  at  door.)     N.  E.    hastily  looks  in 

mirror,  adjusts  her  bangs,    and    pretty  costume  of 

lace  and  ribbons.      Gets  up  and  sits   down   again 

with  left  foot  under  her,  and  answers  in  a  quiet, 

mellifluous  voice,  "  Come  in  !  " 

(Enter  Mr.  Douce,  a  trifle  excited.) 

JV.  E.   "  How  do  you  do,  mv  friend?" 

Cyn.   ','  All  the  better  for  seeing  you,  —  for  I  am 

miserable  to-day." 


222         A  FASHIONABLE  SUFFERER. 

N:  E.  "  Why  ?  " 

Cyn.  "  The  fact  is,  I  have  lately  given  myself  up 
to  pet  theories  and  views  on  subjects  which  never 
seem  to  come  out  as  I  want  them  to." 

N.  E.  u  The  best  way,  then,  is  to  let  them  'gang 
their  own  gait,'  and  not  try  to  alter  them.  People 
will  do  as  they  please,  in  spite  of  you." 

Cyn.  "  You  're  right.  (Sits.)  I  never  mean  to 
raise  a  hand  again  to  alter  that  which  I  see  plainly 
is  destroying  society.  The  whole  social  body  is 
rotten  with  selfishness.  Let  it  go  to  Guinea  for  ;ill 
me."  (Here  Mr.  Douce  puts  both  hands  in  both 
pockets  and  stretches  both  his  feet  out  to  their  full 
est  extent.) 

N.  E.   -The  whole?" 

Cyn.  "  Yes,  man.  woman,  child,  and  dog.  NTo  ! 
the  dogs  are  im-seln'sh.  I  'il  except  the  dogs!  " 

N.  E.  "  Why,  my  friend,  you  arc  in  an  awful 
state  to-day.  Do  try  and  look  at  things  through  a 
different  colored  glass.  Don't  forever  pick  out  of 
your  paint-box  the  indigo,  and  the  bistre.  Let's 
have  a  little  Tight  blue  and  couleur-de-rose  once  in 
a  while,  to  give  the  picture  a  livelier  tone.  .Just 
look  at  that  water-color  of  mine  !  How  do  you  like 
it?" 

Cyn.  "It's  clever — very  clever.  Everything 
you  do  is  clever.  (Cynicus  looks  at  the  sketch 
through  both  his  hands.)  But  I  want  you  to  ac 
complish  something  better  than  a  faded,  neutral- 
tinted,  wishy-washy  water-color.  You  have  the 
capacity  to  '  set  the  world  a-fire.'  " 


A    FASHIONABLE    SUFFKRKR. 


223 


N.  E.   u  But  I  can't  do  it,  my  friend  !  " 

Cyn.  "•  I  say  you  can  ;  but  the  trouble  is,  you 
are  too  rich,  and  too  pretty,  and  too  much  busied 
about  the  shape  of  your  nails,  to  have  any  time  to 
save  your  fellow-men  from  going  to  the  devil." 

N.  E.  "  Why,  t'ynicus  Douce,  you  are  crazy. 
You  know  very  well  that  I  am  powerless  to  do  what 
ij«n  want  me  to  do.'' 

Cyn.  u  Xo  ;  you  "re  not.  You've  got  character 
enough  in  you  to  command  the  world's  attention, 
and  compel  them  to  listen  ;  but  the  modus  is  the 
trouble."  (Here  Mr.  Douce  shoves  his  hand 
through  his  short  hair,  and  pulls  out  his  collar 
from  his  throat,  as  if  it  were  too  tight  for  hiiu.^) 

N.  E.   "The  modus.      What  di>  you  mean?" 

Oi/n.  "•  I  mean,  as 
things  are  managed 
nowadays,  the  rich  act 
as  drags  and  hindrances 
rather  than  as  pioneers 
of  human  progress." 

j\r.  E.  (  Carefully  un 
stopping  the  Preston- 
salts  bottle,  and  taking 
a  whitf. )  "'  It  won't  do 
to  pooh-pooh  the  rich, 
especially  rich  women, 
for  without  them  the  rich  men  would  never  act  at 
all." 

Cyn.   u  Exactly  !     And  the  fault  I  find  with  rich 


224         A  FASHIONABLE  SUFFERER. 

women  is  this:  that  while  they  recognize  the  need 
of  reorganizing  society  by  an  example  of  thrift  and 
self-denial,  they  are  so  often  content  to  let  this  re 
main  a  mere  sentiment,  never  acted  upon." 

N.  E.  '"  Perhaps  you  are  right.  Although  I  rec 
ognize;  the  need  of  philanthropy,  it  is  hardly  natu 
ral  for  those  who  are  mercifully  removed  from  want 
and  poverty  to  deny  themselves  the  good  things  of 
tliis  life."  (Here  she  pulls  a  bursting  rosebud  to 
pieces,  and  eats  the  leaves.) 

C-t/n.  "•  Excuse  me  !  "  (shoving  his  hand  through 
his  short  hair  again.)  "It  is  incumbent  on  the  in 
fluential  members  of  society  —  those  that  are  fully 
able  to  indulge  themselves  to  the  utmost  —  to  set  a 
noble  example  to  the  rest  of  the  world.  I  have 
given  uj),  however,  all  hope  of  reaching  that  cov 
eted  goal,  for  our  richest  women,  those  who  ought 
to  set  this  example,  are  the  very  ones  who  are  sunk 
deepest  in  the  slough  of  self-indulgence."  (Looks 
at  the  Beautiful  X.  E.  with  sadness.) 

N.  ]<J.  u  You  mistake  me,  then,  if  you  think  that 
I  am,  for  I  have  long  felt  convinced  that  there  is 
something  nobler  in  this  world  than  the  selfish  study 
of  one's  own  comfort.  I  seem  to  realize,  for  the  first 
time,  that  1  am  only  one  oitl  of  three  hundred  mill 
ions  of  other  mortals,  who  never  heard  of  my  exist 
ence."  (The  gray  eyes  of  the  N.  E.  glisten  with 
emotion,  and  a  rosy  flush  appears  in  her  cheeks.) 

Ci/n.  "  Glorious  !  Superb  !  Now  you  make  me 
believe  that  a  woman  is  something  more  than  an 
illogical  quibble  ! " 


A  FASHIONABLE  SUFFERER.          225 

N.  E.  u  My  dear  Cynieus  (with  a  comical  smile), 
I  hardly  know  what  to  make  of  this  unusual  com 
pliment.  It  quite  overwhelms  me.  Pray  let  me 
get  used  to  it  before  you  go  on." 

Cyn.  "  It  's  drawn  out  of  me,  in  spite  of  myself ; 
for  it  is  the  symptoms  of  your  signal  victory  over 
the  subtle  weaknesses  engendered  by  wealth  and 
luxury,  which  you  have  shown  of  late,  as  well  as 
for  the  noble  sentiment  you  have  just  uttered, 
which  fills  me  with  admiration.''  (A  pause.) 
"'  And,  Madeleine,  if  you  have  overset  all  my  pre 
conceived  notions  of  woman's  frailties,  you  have 
also,  suddenly,  made  me  the  happiest  of  men." 
(Madeleine  blushes  and  bites  end  of  fan.) 

Mad.   -Why,  dear  friend?" 

Cyn.  "I  cannot  tell  why  I  am  happy;  but  all  I 
know  is,  that  what  you  have  just  said  has  suddenly 
made  me  so.  With  these1  blemishes  removed  you 
become,  in  my  eyes,  the  most  noble  of  women. 
Now,  can  you  —  will  you  —  I  don't  know  what  I  am 
doing  —  but  you  innat  know,  Madeleine,  what  I 
mean."  (Visible  emotion  in  both  parties,  with  per 
ceptible  signs  of  a  denouement.  Silence  for  a  few 
seconds,  during  which  both  principals  insensibly 
approach  each  other.) 

Cijn.  "*  I  am  perfectly  boyish  about  all  this;  but 
I  can't  help  it,  Madeleine.  I  love  you ;  yes,  adore 
you  ;  worship  the  very  ground  you  stand  on.  Now, 
what  can  you  say  to  me?  " 

(Madeleine  looks  askance;  hesitates  a   moment 

15 


226          A  FASHIONABLE  SUFFERER. 

to  toy  with  her  fan  before  she  replies,  with  a 
roguish  smile  on  her  lips.) 

Mad.  u  You  may  well  ask  me,  What  can  7  say? 
for  I  am  truly  astonished  at  what  you  say.  You 
surely  cannot  be  the  same  gentleman  whose  motto 
a  moment  since  \vas,  u  Vanity  of  vanities,  all  is 
vanity/  You  cannot  be  that  happy  soul  who  de 
nied  the  necessity  of  woman's  society  to  man,  and 
proclaimed  his  perfect  freedom  from  all  uxorial 
aspirations  !  " 

Cyn.  Ah,  Madeleine !  you  have  your  revenge. 
I  acknowledge  that  some  of  my  conclusions  have 
been  erroneous/' 

Mad.  "  Yes :  your  philosophy  has  been  of  such 
a  frightful  sort  that  no  sensible  woman  could  ever 
think  of  —  of  —  a  man  holding  to  such  a  creed  in 
any  other  light  than  as  a  dangerous  foe  to  her  hap 
piness  ;  — that  's  my  idea  !  " 

Cifii.  "  You  don't  mean  to  say,  then,  you  hate 
me  ?  '' 

M<td.  "•  I  don't  haft:  anybody.  I  only  say  that 
any  mortal  professing  such  a  horrid  creed  would 
be  a  dangerous  element  to  be  admitted  into  a  wom 
an's  life.  1  never  could  be  happy  with  such  a 
creature ! '' 

Cyn.  "  Ah,  Madeleine !  you  have  known  me 
from  boyhood ;  and  do  you  believe  that  I  could  ever 
hurt  you  ? "' 

Mdd.  "  You  have  hurt  me  often  by  what  you  've 
said,  and  by  the  way  you  've  'gone  on/  " 


A  FASHIONABLE  SUFFERER.          227 

Cyn.  "  And  am  I  to  understand  that  you  never 
can  love  me  ?  Great  heavens  !  Are  you  going  to 
break  my  heart?" 

Mad.  ""  My  dear  Cynicus,  I  'm  no  girl  of  sixteen; 
I  have  reached  the  sober  years  of  discretion,  and 
fully  realize  that  no  two  people  can  ever  be  happy 
together  who  have  not  some  identical  interests,  or 
who  are  not  in  a  measure  en  rapport.'"' 

Cyn.  "And  don't  you  think  that  you  and  I  are, 
in  some  '  measure,'  en  rapport  ?  Have  n't  we  been 
growing  more  so  every  day  ?  " 

Mad.  "  Have  we?  "  (With  a  doubtful  and  dazed 
expression.) 

Cyn.  (Brushing  a  tear  from  his  eye.)  "Yes,  we 
have  !  I  know  we  have  :  I  feel  we-  have  ;  and  what 
are  opinions  after  all,  Madeleine  ?  And  what  are 
conclusions,  after  all,  in  the  face  of  an  actual,  un 
biased,  and  true-hearted  affection?  Madeleine,  I 
love  you.  Do  you  fully  understand  what  that 
means?  Xot  a  make-believe,  namby-pamby  love  ; 
not  a  fanciful  sort  of  partiality,  but  a  gradual,  ma 
ture,  and  healthy  passion,  resulting  from  life-long 
experience  and  the  growth  of  years  !  " 

Mad.  (Sighs.)  "I  understand,  my  dear  friend, 
or  I  think  I  understand  your  feelings.  The  rev- 
rlatinn  of  them  is  what  astonishes  me  so  much.  I 
cannot  surely  be  blamed  for  this  astonishment ;  nor 
can  you  wonder  at  my  hesitation  to  believe  you. 
You  have  taught  me  for  so  many  years  to  think  of 
you  in  any  other  Im'ht  than  the  one  in  which  YOU 


228  A   FASHIONABLE   SUFFERER. 

now  display  yourself,  that  I  have  great  difficulty  in 
realizing  that  what  I  hear  is  not  a  dream  of  fancy, 
or  one;  of  those  exhibitions  of  hollowness  in  which 
you  think  the  world  indulges  so  much." 

Cyn.  "  Oh,  don't  be  cruel,  friend  of  my  youth. 
You  have  heretofore  seen  me  as  a  quasi  philosopher ; 
but  you  now  behold  me  robbed  of  it  all  —  a  mere 
child  again." 

Mad.  '"Alas,  my  poor  friend  !  Do  I  understand 
that  you  now  avow  all  this  fine  argument  about,  the 
'emptiness  of  life'  to  be  only  just  so  much  non 
sense,  and  not  your  real  opinion  after  all?" 

Cyn.   "Oh,  pity   me!   pity   me,  dearest  love!   for 
I  really  do   confess   that    there   is   such  a  thing  as 
true  ali'ection  :    I    feel    it  too  deeply  not    to   believe  , 
in    its   existence.      MY  only   mistake    has   been   in 
going  too  far  with  my  philosophy." 

Mad.  "  Do  you  then  recant,  my  friend,  and  give 
up  all  these  fine-spun  theories?" 

( 'i/n.  "No,  dearest  Madeleine,  not  all,  not  all; 
spare  me  a  few!  For  I  cannot  entirely  disbelieve 
a  conclusion  which  manv  eventful  years  of  expe 
rience  and  trial  have  brought  me  to.  No,  not  all  ! 
I  do  believe  that  this  world,  by  itself,  is  well  enough  : 
that  honesty,  truth,  and  virtue,  unlet  and  unhin 
dered,  would  thrive  and  flourish  here  ;  but  that  the 
degenerate  results  of  our  modern  civilization  have 
plated,  so  to  speak,  everything  and  everybody  with 
a  thin  veneer  of  falseness  and  pretense.  This  con 
viction  I  can  never  surrender." 


A  FASHIONABLE  SUFFERER. 


229 


Mad.  '*  Plow  is  it  then  possible  for  this  to  be 
true,  and  at  the  same  time  your  love  for  me  to  be 
equally  a  truth?"'  (Madeleine  looks  serious,  and 
straightens  the  feathers  at  the  top  of  her  fan  with 
thumb  and  forefinger.) 

t'yn.  "  I  don't  know  how  they  can  be  true.  I 
only  know  they  are  true,  nevertheless.  Is  n't  it 
possible,  dearest  child,  that  the  world  should  be 
filled  —  no.  not  entirely  filled,  because  I've  given 
up  that  point  —  but 
(\.  good  deal  filled  up 
with  hypocrisy  and 
humbug;  and  also 
be  true  that  I,  the 
cynic  and  the  dis 
believer,  s  h  o  u  1  d 
love  and  adore  you  ? 
T  should  like  to 
know  why  both  of 
these  truths  can't 
exist  at  the  same 
time  on  the  earth? 
they?'' 

(Air.  Douce  here  furtively  takes  the  left  hand 
of  the  Beautiful  X.  K.,  who  passively  allows  it  to 
be  held  undisturbed. ) 

Mad.  (With  hesitation.)  u  I  have  sometimes 
thought,  Cynicus,  that  —  that  perhaps  —  you  were 
about  half  right  in  some  fcic  of  your  conclusions. 
But  I  never  could  acknowledge  it,  you  know,  never ; 


Why?     Tell  me  why  can't 


230         A  FASHIONABLE  SUFFERER. 

my  womanly  instincts  would  n't  allow  me  to  do 
that" 

Cyn.  (With  effusion.)  "  I  don't  ask  you,  dearest, 
to  agree  with  my  theories ;  I  only  pray  that  you 
acknowledge  my  facts.  Do  you,  can  you  believe, 
that  when  I  swear  I  love  you,  I  say  the  solemn 
truth?" 

Mad.  (Looks  a  little1  more  shaky  than  she  did, 
slight  twitchings  descernible  at  the  corners  of  her 
pretty  mouth  ;  she  sighs.)  "•  I  believe  you." 

Cyn.  "  Can  you  then  permit  this  fact,  which  you 
say  you  believe  to  be  true  —  will  you  permit  it  to 
remain  unaccepted  ?  " 

Mad.  u  It  makes  me  both  happy  and  frightened 
to  acknowledge  this  avowal  as  a  fact." 

Cyn.  "Then,  dearest  Madeleine,  will  you  not 
give  me  the  inexpressible  delight  of  hearing  from 
your  own  lips  that  that  love  finds  an  echo  in  your 
own  dear  heart?" 

Mad.  "•  1  find  it  impossible  to  tell  you  what  I 
feel." 

Cyn.  "I  won't  ask  for  words  then,  darling! 
Look  it.  Tell  me  with  your  dear  eyes  that  you 
reciprocate  my  love!" 

( The  Beautiful  N.  E.,  after  several  vain  attempts, 
at  last  looks  the  friend  of  her  youth  straight  in  the 
eyes,  while  two  large  tears  roll  down  her  pale 
cheeks.) 

The  pearly,  waning  sunlight  was  the  only  wit 
ness  of  this  momentous  contract,  — shedding  upon 
the  two  a  loving,  silent  benison. 


A    FASHIONABLE    SUFFERER. 


231 


Tableau*-  Vivant. 

So  let  all  Nervous  Exhaustionists  and  Pessimists 
perish ! 


/ 


WHAT  THE   WORLD   SAID. 

As  may  be  supposed,  when  the  engagement  be 
tween  the  Beautiful  N.  E.  and  Mr.  Douce  was  an 
nounced,  all  Paradise  was  agog  with  excitement. 
The  very  day  and  the  very  hour  when  the  impor 
tant  event  occurred  was,  by  some  wonderful  means, 
known  to  the  little  community  almost  as  soon  as 
the  event  itself  had  become  a  certainty.  Her  inti 
mate  friends  immediately  resolved  themselves  into 
a  committee  of  the  whole  "  to  discuss  the  subject." 
Some  said,  "  I  told  you  so.  I  knew  that  something 


A  FASHIONABLE  SUFFERER.         233 

must  come  out  of  all  that  apparent  disagreement 
and  yet  constant  intimacy."  While  others  re 
marked,  "  They  will  be  a  dreadfully  unhappy 
couple;  for  when  a  spoiled  child  and  an  old  bach 
elor  come  together,  look  out  for  breakers  !  "  The 
young  ladies  were  very  much  interested  in  the  daily 
progress  of  the  match.  The  children  reported  to 
the  grown  people  every  time  either  of  the  engaged 
parties  moved  a  muscle  which  might  be  construed 
into  an  amatory  evidence,  while  the  old  heads  won 
dered  how  it  all  came  about. 

The  great  question  which  agitated  everybody 
was,  tk  Is  this  the  result  of  persistence  on  Mr. 
Donee's  part ;  the  end  of  a  faint-heart-never-won-- 
fair-lady  policy ;  or  did  it  happen  naturally,  as 
people  take  measles,  or  the  mumps  ?  "'  There  was 
one  very  wise  person  upon  the  Hill  who  delivered 
quite  an  oration  on  the  subject.  He  remarked,  "  I 
believe  that  Cynicus  Douce  never  would  have  asked 
the  Beautiful  N.  E.  to  marry  him,  had  it  not  been 
for  just  the  peculiar  state  of  circumstances  which 
happened  to  surround  him  on  that  particular  morn 
ing,  and  at  the  very  moment.  I  believe/'  said  this 

O  J 

person,  u  that  he  had  no  more  idea  of  being  en 
gaged  to  his  life-long  friend  then,  than  at  any  other 
time  within  the  past  ten  or  fifteen  years  ;  and  it 
only  proves  that  all  these  things  are  ordered  for  us. 
It  shows  that,  work  as  we  will  in  one  direction  or 
another,  'there  is  a  divinity  which  shapes  our 
ends.' ' 


234          A  FASHIONABLE  SUFFERER. 

"  Some  men  think  that  by  constantly  belaboring 
a  woman,  and  sending  flowers  to  her,  and  asking 
her  to  marry  them  over  and  over  again,  that  at 
last  she  will  succumb,  and  accept  the  persistent 
adorer.  This  may,  once  in  a  while,  be  the  case, 
when  the  man  is  very,  very  rich,  and  all  her  family 
are  poor,  or  she  herself  is  getting  a  little  —  a  wee 
bit  passee.  But  nine  times  out  of  ten  this  is  not 
so.  If  a  woman  is  inclined  to  dislike  a  man,  why, 
she  dislikes  him,  that 's  all ;  and  if  she  likes  him, 
she  likes  him,  and  also  every  foolish  thing  he  says, 
and  every  idiotic  thing  he  does.  Another  man, 
really  twice  as  fascinating,  and  twice  as  wise,  may 
try  to  step  in  and  'cut  him  out;'  but  all  the  pos 
turing,  all  the  flowers,  and  the  Jacqueminot  buds, 
and  all  the  k  taffy  and  the  caramels '  in  the  world, 
are  entirely  thrown  away  upon  her.  They  are  not 
worth,  in  the  mind  of  this  infatuated  one,  a  scin 
tillation  of  the  value  which  she  attaches  to  one 
miserable  faded  leaf  which  '  her  Alphonse '  may 
have  given  her,  or  to  an  awkward  expression«of  ad 
miration  which  he  may  have  awkwardly  expressed. 
Now  Cynicus  Douce  did  not  think  or  know  any 
thing  about  his  love  for  the  Beautiful  N.  E.  I 
believe  he  supposed  that  she  and  he  were  to  be 
just  as  they  had  been  to  each  other,  — good  friends, 
you  know,  to  their  life's  end ;  but  feeling  rather 
blue  that  morning,  and  being  so  pleased  with  Mad 
eleine  for  her  '  perking  up '  and  flying  round  on 
horseback,  and  so  delighted  with  what  she  had  told 


A  FASHIONABLE  SUFFERER.          235 

liim  about  her  new  sort  of  feeling  on  subjects  which 
had  so  interested  him  all  his  life,  —  that  he  sud 
denly  felt  a  strange  impulse  to  tell  her  that  he 
loved  her  for  it,  and  then  the  ball  was  opened,  and 
there  was  nothing  to  be  done  but  go  right  ahead, 
and  that's  the  way,  in  my  opinion,  this  affair 
came  about."' 

Xow  this  person  was  pretty  nearly  correct  in 
his  view  of  that  important  event.  At  any  rate  the 
thing  was  done,  and  the  world  was  already  getting 
used  to  the  new  arrangement. 

Autumn  had  now  commenced  to  admonish  the 
fair  sojourners  that  the  big  trunks  must  again  be 
packed,  and  thoughts  be  turned  once  more  towards 
the  bustle  and  the  stir  of  city  life.  Maids  and 
mistresses  were  half  buried  in  mountains  of  immac 
ulate  linen,  which  lay  in  heaps  on  the  floor,  while 
the  great  towering  "three-deckers*'  stood  gaping 
by,  ready  to  swallow  them  up  at  the  appointed 
moment. 

It  is  a  sort  of  melancholy  occasion,  this  breaking 
up  of  a  summer's  campaign,  this  end  of  a  d»?cef<ir 
niente  life.  Especially  so  if  these  necessary  ar 
rangements  happen  to  come  on  a  morning  when 
there;  is  an  unwonted  balminess  in  the  air,  and  a 
peculiarly  la/.v  haziness  over  the  landscape  ;  when 
the  turning  leaves  are  exquisite  in  color,  and  seem 
to  be  silently  murmuring  mournful  farewells. 

One  stops  his  packing,  and,  looking  out  from  the 


236         A  FASHIONABLE  SUFFERER. 

open  window  over  the  quiet  hills,  is  tempted  to  ex 
claim  :  "  No  !  It  \s  impossible  to  leave  all  this  love 
liness  !  I  must  take  that  long  desired  drive  to-day, 
which  I  have  been  so  often  about  to  take,  but  have 
never  quite  accomplished."  Time,  however,  waits 
for  no  man.  To-morrow  becomes  to-day,  and  to 
day  yesterday,  almost  while  we  are  looking  from 
the  lattice  over  the  glowing  landscape.  The  big 
wagon  is  already  at  the  door,  and  they  are  calling 
upon  us  to  take  our  places.  Before  we  quite  know 
we  are  off,  the  puff-pun'  of  the  great  locomotive 
carries  us  swiftly  behind  the  hill,  shutting  out  from 
view  the  scene  of  so  many  delights. 

Yes,  the  summer  is  past !  As  we  go  clattering 
and  banging  along  the  iron  track,  each  moment  is 
separating  us  farther  and  farther  from  the  almost 
ideal  existence  in  which  we  have  been  dreaming  ; 
and  is  hurrying  us  nearer  to  those  tentacles  of 
worry  and  toil  with  which  the  great  metropolis 
in  front  stands  ready  to  enwrap  us. 

One  shrill  whistle  and  two  shorts  "  toots  "  are 
sufficient  to  bring  us  again  face  to  face  with  the 
city  and  all  its  cantankerous  cares.  Friends  are 
everywhere  on  the  streets  nodding  recognition  and 
welcoming  our  return.  The  furnace  fires  must 
soon  be  lighted.  Our  ulsters  and  mufflers  taken 
from  the  camphor-trunk,  and  presto !  in  a  twink 
ling,  the  scene  is  so  completely  changed  that  the 


A  FASHIONABLE  SUFFERER. 


237 


summer  which  has  but  now  departed  may  just  as 
well  be  the  summer  of  ten  years  ago,  as  the  one 
whose  influence  is  still  showing  itself  on  our  brown 
and  ruddy  cheeks,  and  in  our  vigorous  gait. 


THE  glimpse  of  life's  comedy  which  we  have 
taken  in  the  foregoing  chapters  is  but  an  incom 
plete  and  partial  view  of  that  daily  drama  which 
goes  cheerily  on  in  the  life  of  society. 

The  characters  which  have  appeared  are  meant 
to  be  merely  types  of  real  people ;  while  what 
they  have  said  is  a  chance  echo  of  opinion,  enter 
tained  by  friends  at  our  elbow.  These-  people  and 
these  opinions  may  not  be  exactly  those  to  be  found 
everywhere,  yet,  we  think,  such  can  easily  be  dis 
covered  without  the  aid  of  a  telescope.  As  the 
world  is  both  larger  and  smaller  than  we  realize  it 
to  be,  so  there  are  persons  in  it  who  take  narrower 
and  broader  views  of  the  questions  of  the  day  than 
we  naturally  expect  they  would.  One  charm  of 


A  FASHIONABLE  SUFFERER.         239 

life  is  disagreement.  The  curse  of  it  is  when  this 
disagreement  carries  rancor  and  personality.  Ex 
purgated  of  these  baleful  elements,  existence  would 
resemble  a  bouquet  of  varied  and  exquisite  flowers. 
The  doleful  and  pessimistic  opinions  of  Mr.  Cyn 
ic  us  Douce  may  be  pronounced  both  unnatural  and 
strained,  yet  there  are  many  good  people  of  one's 
acquaintance  who  hold  ideas  akin  to  those  expressed 
by  him,  and  who  can  say  just  how  far  Mr.  Douce 
was  wrong.  The  peculiarly  delicate  case  of  the 
Beautiful  X.  E.  may  be  dismissed  as  an  exaggerated 
form  of  an  unheard-of  disease,  if  such  a  thing  is 
possible,  yet  there  are  many  individuals  in  ival  life 
who  are  afflicted  with  a  complaint  very  similar  to 
that  which  laid  our  fascinating  friend  on  a  couch  of 
delicious  pain. 

The  healthy  tone  of  Lady  Angela's  mind  may 
possibly  be  thought  to  be  more  in  accordance  with 
that  of  every-day  people,  and  yet  there  are  not  a 
few,  I  trow,  who,  if  they  cared  to  think  at  all  on 
the  subject,  would  quarrel  with  just  that  frank 
ness  of  expression  which  characterized  this  lady's 
speech. 

In  this  world  each  one  is  apt  to  take  himself  for 
a  standard  of  virtue  and  godliness,  and  think  that 
this  or  that  thing  is  neither  natural  nor  right,  sim 
ply  because  he  or  she  would  never  think  of  doing 
thus  and  so.  To  prove  this,  propose  any  question 
of  every-day  experience  to  a  company  of  men  and 
women,  and  observe  how  naturally  they  decide  it 


240         A  FASHIONABLE  SUFFERER. 

in  accordance  with  a  view  favoring  their  own  line 
of  conduct  under  such  circumstances,  rather  than 
what  would  be  the  actual  truth  of  the  matter.  For 
instance,  tell  a  lady  that  her  sex  have  two  objects 
in  adorning1  themselves,  —  one,  expensively,  to 
please  their  own  vanity;  the  other,  becomingly, 
to  fascinate  the  other  portion  of  humanity,  and  she 
will  reply  that  it  can't  be  true,  as  she  never  does 
either  the  one  or  the  other.  Tell  a  man  that  the 
world  is  happy  when  some  poor  devil  "comes  to 
grief,"  and  he  will  say  that  it  can't  be  so,  because 
he  never  felt  so  himself ;  forgetting  entirely  that  a 
soup  fo  it  of  that  same  emotion  was  present  in  his 
heart  but  yesterday. 

It  would  be  tedious  to  pursue  this  subject 
farther ;  for,  however  interesting  the  theme,  man 
is  so  constituted  as  to  be  unable  to  bear  but  little 
of  one  thing  at  one  time.  Nothing  but  "  Robinson 

r^  O 

Crusoe"  and  "  (Julliver's  Travels"  can  be  read 
forever. 

It  remains  for  us  to  say  a  few  words,  by  way  of 
valedictory,  concerning  the  fate  of  some  of  the 
friends  who  have  occupied  our  attention  throughout 
these  pages. 

The  Beautiful  N.  E.  is  living  as  the  radiant  and 
contented  wife  of  Mr.  Cynicus  Douce.  Her  wealth 
ministers  to  do  good  where  good  can  best  be  done. 
Her  aristocratic  yet  unpretentious  home  is  the 
arena  where  wit,  philosophy,  and  elegance  vie  with 


A  FASHIONABLE  SUFFERER.         241 

each  other  in  friendly  strife.  Nothing  mawkish  or 
unreal  thrives  in  her  society  ;  while  everything 
lovely  and  lovable,  generous  and  beautiful,  finds  a 
welcome  there.  She  has  shown  to  the  world  that 
"  Beautiful  X.  E's/'  all  over  the  country  have  only 
to  shake  off  the  luxurious  lethargy  which  lugs  at 
their  life,  in  order  to  become  endeared  and  honored 
members  of  a  thankful  society.  Cynicus  and  she 
are  a  thoroughly  charming  couple.  They  live  like 
sensible  people,  and  so  get  on  famously  together. 

In  addition  to  all  their  other  fine  qualities,  they 
possess  that  wonderful,  ever-to-be-prized,  matrimo 
nial  desideratum,  called  tact.  It'  there  could  only 
be  more  tact  and  less  money  in  the  world,  every 
body  would  be  happier.  Tact  is  more  valuable 
than  solitaire  ear-rings  or  ancestral  coaches  ;  and 
more  to  be  prized  in  a  family  than  dresses  from 
Paris,  or  an  eligible  match.  These  two  delightful 
friends  have  a  "large  assortment"  of  the  above- 
mentioned  article,  hence  the  resultant  happiness 
which  tills  to  running  over  their  cup  of  domestic 


Now  a  word  concerning  their  intimate  compan 
ion,  tht1  Lady  Angela.  She  is  so  like  everybody 
else,  and  yet  so  very  unlike,  that  everybody  loves 
her  ;  selfishly  imagining  they  see  in  her  what 
they  think  they  possess  themselves.  She  is  an 
admired  object  of  the  society  in  which  she  moves, 
because  she  is,  not  only  on  a  level  with  every- 

1G 


242         A  FASHIONABLE  SUFFERER. 

body  else's  good  qualities,  but  also  far  above  every 
body  else,  in  the  same  direction. 

Natural  and  elegant,  unsuspicious  and  clever, 
childlike,  and  even  manlike,  she  can  but  chal 
lenge  admiration,  and  inspire  respect.  It  is  a  very 
elevating  circumstance  to  be  the  friend  of  a  healthy, 
clever,  and  thinking  woman  ;  one  who  can  stand 
up  in  argument  against  a  full-grown  intellect,  and 
do  good  battle  with  it.  There  is  something  very 
inspiring  in  this  condition  of  tilings.  The  Lady 
Angela  does  all  this  effectually.  What  she  knows 
she  knows  exactly.  What  she  says,  she  means. 
What  she  proposes  to  do,  she  does.  The  Lady  An 
gela  does  n't  joke,  though  she  is  the  opposite  from 
solemn.  She  merely  says  "yes"  when  she  means 
"  yes,"  and  "  no  "  when  she  means  what  that  mono 
syllable  implies.  The  idea  of  "  badinage "  is  a 
stranger  in  her  direct  mind ;  she  laughs  and 
romps  and  "  skylarks "  to  any  extent,  but  if  she 
makes  an  appointment  she  keeps  it.  If  she  says 
she  is  going  anywhere,  it  is  no  "  moonshine ;  "  she 
goes  somewhere.  At  school,  there  was  always 
some  unlucky  scholar  in  love  with  her.  She  be 
longs  to  that  class  of  her  sox  which  have  girl-lovers 
as  well  as  man-lovers.  But  the  Lady  Angela,  with 
all  her  infantile  sprightliness,  is  in  reality  only  a 
lovely  tyrant.  Her  adorers,  both  male  and  female, 
are  abject  adorers;  given  over  to  her  interest  — 
body,  soul,  and  opinion.  She  has  a  way  of  extract 
ing  from  them  their  entire  allegiance,  without  being 


A  FASHIONABLE  SUFFERER.          243 

called  upon  to  furnish  any  of  her  own  in  return ; 
accustomed  thus  to  receive,  all  her  life,  she  natu 
rally  forgets  to  give.  If  one  is  a  receiver  only,  lie 
soon  loses  the  impulse  to  give.  So  it  is,  in  some 
degree,  with  the  Lady  Angela.  Her  lovers  insist 
on  loving  her,  and  pouring  into  her  lap  all  their  de 
votion,  and  find  it  so  very  agreeable  that  they 
forget,  until  it  is  too  late,  to  obtain  anything  from 
her  in  return.  But  it  is  a  boon  indeed  when  the 
Lady  Angela  does  actually  u  smile  back,"  or  give, 
as  she  sometimes  does  give,  k*a  quid  pro  quo."  On 
these  happy  occasions  it  is  as  if  Juno  had  smiled 
in  the  council  of  the  gods. 

It  was  pure  good  fortune  that  Air.  Douce  and 
his  Beautiful  N.  E.  lived  so  near,  in  the  great  city, 
to  their  friend,  the  Lady  Angela.  Their  dinner 
parties  and  other  entertainments,  at  each  other's 
houses,  were  never  complete  unless  all  three  were 
together,  so  that  the  society  of  the  metropolis  was 
pretty  nearly  "perfect"  when  this  was  the  case. 

It  may  be  asked,  '•  Was  the  Lady  Angela  mar 
ried  ?  And  if  not,  why  not?"  History  is  a  little 
vague  on  this  point.  Some  people  thought  she  had 
once  lost  her  heart,  and  then  got  it  back  again  ; 
another  portion  were' not  quite  so  sure.  Certain  it 
was  that  she  broke  men's  hearts  from  sheer  ina 
bility  to  do  otherwise  ;  and  if  her  own  was  not 
shattered,  it  was  because  she  never  met  the  man 
worthy  of  performing  such  a  redoubtable  feat  of 
arms. 


244         A  FASHIONABLE  SUFFERER. 

Something  should  now  be  said  concerning  the 
little  church  in  Paradise,  and  its  new  rector.  The 
miniature  excitement  which  raged  in  the  parish 
during  the  summer,  in  its  efforts  to  obtain  what  it 
desired,  at  last  culminated  in  success.  The  Rev. 
George  Faxon  is  a  model  priest,  meeting  every 
requirement  which  such  a  person  is  expected  to 
possess.  In  the  first  place,  he  is  an  intelligent,  level 
headed  gentleman  ;  next,  lie  is  a  conscientious,  hon 
est  Christian.  Then  again,  he  possesses  tact,  talent, 
and  coolness.  Besides  all  these  fine  qualities,  he 
is  benevolent,  lenient,  and  trustworthy.  Travel, 
and  a  good  deal  of  knocking  about,  has  given  him 
liberality  of  view,  and  a  lot  of  sturdy  principle. 
His  sermons  are  twenty-three  minutes  long.  He 
preaches  what  St.  Paul  preached,  and  does  not  busy 
himself  in  trying  to  explain  the  unexplainable  ;  or 
talking  about  that  which  he  knows  nothing  at  all. 

He  is  thirty  years  old,  and  charms  every  variety 
of  Christian  in  his  parish,  from  Mr.  Cynicus  Douce 
to  Miss  Eunice  Smart.  The  weekly  contributions 
have  also  steadily  increased  ;  and  from  eight  dollars 
and  fifty  cents,  as  of  former  years,  they  now  amount 
to  twenty-eight  and  twenty-nine  every  Sunday. 

To  cap  the  climax,  Mr.  Faxon  is  married.  His 
wife  neither  talks  too  much  nor  tattles.  She  has 
"  means  "  of  her  own,  so  her  house  is  not  wanting 
in  those  surroundings  which  make  home  so  pleas 
ant,  and  the  parish  feels  more  easy  in  regard  to  the 
salary  question.  Unlike  most  ministers,  who  usu- 


A  FASHIONABLE  SUFFERER.          245 

ally  fall  in  love  with  some  damsel  in  the  town 
where  the  seminary  is  situated,  before  they  are 
raised  to  the  priesthood,  George  Faxon  waited 
until  he  returned  from  Europe  before  he  married. 
His  friends  think  he  lost  nothing  by  this  delay. 
In  short,  the  minister  and  his  wife  are  a  couple, 
such  as  any  parish  should  be  proud  of.  The  sacred 
profession  is  honored  by  a  conscientious,  honest, 
and  intelligent  member,  while  the  dear  old  church 
has  no  worthier  son  to  sustain  her  ancient  prestige, 
or  bear  aloft  her  sacred  banner.  George  Faxon  is 
a  handsome  fellow,  and  his  wife  is  not  an  invalid  — 
two  weighty  facts  in  a  parish. 

As  to  our  other  friends  of  whom  we  have  spoken : 
those  who  gathered  together  under  "  Benjamin's 
pines  "  to  listen  to  the  "•  Diary  of  an  Unfortunate 
Gentleman ; "  who  assembled  in  Paradise  Hall 
where  Mr.  Douce  gave  his  lecture,  and  who  passed 
those  happy  hours  on  "  Top-Knot "'  when  the  melons 
were  ripe,  we  are  glad  to  say  that  "  Paradise  "  still 
claims  them  for  her  own.  Indeed,  "Paradise" 
would  hardly  be  "  Paradise ''  at  all,  unless  their 
gladsome  smiles  and  beaming  countenances  were 
recognized  amidst  its  emerald  glades  and  undu 
lating  hills.  What  though  they  be  but  ideal  com 
panions  in  the  realms  of  fancy,  —  still,  to  say  fare 
well  to  even  these,  stirs  within  our  heart  a  feeling 
akin  to  that  which  is  present  when  living  friend 
ships  die.  Let  us  hope  that  as  the  halcyon  days 
approach,  and  the  robin  and  the  bluebird  fly  back 


246 


A   FASHIONABLE   SUFFERER. 


from  their  southern  homes,  so  these  dear  friends 
may  return  each  season  in  the  puffing  train  which 
stops  at  the  little  red-roofed  station  among  the 
green  hills  of  "  Tucit-Kennoc." 


STANDARD  AND  POPULAR 


SELECTED  FROM   THE   CATALOGUE   OF 
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sand  years,  have  set  in  best  order  the  results  of  their 
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inaccessible,  solitary,  impatient  of  interruptions,  fenced  by 
etiquette ;  but  the  thought  which  they  did  not  uncover  to 
their  bosom  friend  is  here  written  out  in  transparent 
words  to  us,  the  strangers  of  another  age.  —  Ralph 
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